prisoner of dreams

Every time I break away I feel completely divorced from that past—and then it comes back at me again, like a trap. But I do want to be back to see you.

Flying up, crossing over, going forward. Passing through, getting deep enough. Breaking into, finding the way, living at the heart and going beyond that. Finally realizing that arriving is not the same as being resident. That what we do is not what we are doing. We go into the orchard for apples. But what we carry back is the day among trees with odor, coolness, dappled light and time. The season and geese going over. Always and always with death to come, and before that the dishonor of growing old. But meanwhile the trees are heavy with ripe fruit. We try to visit Greece and find ourselves instead in the pointless noon standing among vetch and grapes, disassembling as night climbs beautifully out of the earth and God holds His breath. In the distance there is the faint clatter of a farmer’s bucket as she gets water up at the well for the animals.

Everything happening had a light around it, not the light of Catholic miracles, the blunt light of a Saturday afternoon. Light in a world that rushes forward with us. I wanted to stop and gather up the blocks behind me in this light, but it doesn’t work. You keep walking, lifting one foot, then the other, saying “This is what I need to remember” and then hoping you can.

Let’s not talk about it, let’s just not talk. Not because I don’t believe it, not because I want it any different, but I’m always saving and you’re always owing and I’m tired of asking to               settle the debt.

She was the girl in the fairy tale sleeping in a prison of thorns and roses.

And every glittering kiss and every touch of flesh is another shard of heart you’ll never see again.