dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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The brutal absence. Everything here now has the immediacy of skin. The damned coffee pot, the lightning last night, some scrawled notes I took on her first day gone, where the phrase sacralization with things of the earth surfaced from the depths of a sermon haphazardly attended in order to get right with the world. Then a letter arrives with the imprint of starfish on stationery I bought for her, unable to think of anything else, kind of dumbfounded during the gift-giving holiday. July begins in two days, & again, I don’t have anything to welcome her home. Focus on her so much, other things might get short shrift. So here, water pitcher, lord of balcony tomato plants; here, toaster, we rarely use; here, modern blinds, taken for granted; here, ceiling fan; right now you’re all the skin, bones, visual & tactile flesh I can relate to. Hello fading light, receding Time, guiding her back, deductively, this way.



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