I forgot to mention that trying not to second guess everything while also trying to be sure to carefully examine everything is absolutely exhausting.
So very tired.
The first retainer
he gave to her
was a golden
The second—late at night
he woke up,
leaned over on an elbow,
and kissed her.
The third and the last—
he died with
and gave up loving
and lived with her.
Sometimes your new friend the poetry professor sends you an email in the middle of the night and it hurts like whoa.
I guess three hours of sleep is better than two or one or none.
Tho not by much.
Sweet baby Jesus, I came up to bed at 8:45 and cannot fall asleep. Have read 10 chapters of this book and can’t stop thinking. Also, hot flashes. Gross.
and as myself, of life impoverished, go
into the love all flesh begins
and ends in. —
Wendell Berry, from “Some Further Words,” in Given (Counterpoint, 2005)
Always. Re. Blog.
Hayden Carruth, from interview with Steve Huff (via apoetreflects)
Carruth’s poetry, oof. I go back to his books again and again to remind me how to connect to my relationships through the natural world around me. His work is so filled with landscape and longevity and longing. My goodness. It’s a fine way to start or end any day.
Note to self:
You have an amazing imagination, thus I bet at least half of this is in your head. Maybe just write a book instead.
when it just hung off my brainstem like a whipped mule.
When my hands only wrote. When my teeth only ate.
When my ass sat, my eyes read, when my reflexes
were answers to questions we all already knew.
Remember how it was then that you slid your hand
into me, a fork in the electric toaster of my body. Jesus,
where did all these sparks come from? Where was all
this heat? Remember what this mouth did last night?
And still, this morning I answer the phone like normal,
still I drink an hour’s worth of strong coffee. And now
I file. And now I send an email. And remember how
my lungs filled with all that everything? Remember
how my heart was an animal you released from its cage?
Remember how we unhinged? Remember all the names
our bodies called each other? Remember how afterwards,
the steam rose from us like a pair of smiling ghosts? — Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz, ”December,” from The Year of No Mistakes (Write Bloody Publishing, 2013) (via apoetreflects)