We don’t have to bruise ourselves to be in love with this process. We can listen to the music and let the evening carry us.
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I gave up the certainty in sunlight, 8 A.M. Sunday service. But aureole, catacomb, vigil, vesper: those have stayed with me.
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I wrote as a way to explain the world to myself—to feel like I had some agency, even if my only power was as a witness.
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The knights keep watch as I try once again to name what can’t be named, to tell the story that keeps surviving me.
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The work of poetry is a perishing, hauntingly apprehended in the songs of sevdah.
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To be young is fleeting. Love and life pass like the ungraspable wind, never to return again.
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For me, these realities of nature reveal a sense of presto: an inherent poetry to this life, a chance to find meaning and magic in a world we share with such strange creatures.
Read More!["A ringing clarity, followed by smoke. Deliberate naughtiness." ([sarah] Cavar on Presto)](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b46fda03e2d09fe09bcfb34/1716908362048-K2U1OOB07S5HBVRGSP1E/Web+Graphic.JPG)
What would my craft be, we and I, if not for the lovers I share us with?
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That intensity is impossible to replicate as an adult, I think, because it reverts to nostalgia for us.
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In the back alley of my mind a taxi leaked orange light against the worst of my wounding and I said, I want to leave that here.
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