I.
The wind and trees are writing ballads
for Sunday’s disquietude.
I think of Cat Stevens
and Penny Lane,
and how shapes do not exist
without shadows.
II.
Everything feels like a juxtaposition:
Mind vs. Heart,
Heaven vs. Hell,
Sun vs. Moon.
Have I had too much or not enough?
III.
The fear of vulnerability
is not a slamming of the door,
but a silent changing of the locks
when you’ve just exchanged keys.
IV.
Am I right to be suspicious
of my desires?
V.
Rumi claims language is
“A longing for home.”
But listening to you,
I’m already there.
VI.
Do we ever go to war for love?
Or do we just love war?
The horses are dead—
Nobody knows.
VII.
Perhaps the only thing worse
than the eternity of words
are the ways in which we arrange them.