“But I always think the best way to know God is to love many things.” (V.VanGogh)

Another opening or a tear. (An opening is designed to gape, while a tear is a minor tragedy.) The life that we longed for sags with the weight of its own losses. It’s a sling of paper, wet until it gives. And here we are, after all, breathers on this side of death, with meaty arms and quiet shoulders where the wind blows in the evening and street lights make oases between gravelly dirt. The street lights make the night more alien, but you take my hand in yours. And the cars growl by, and the planes blink silently far above, just like rhythmic planets, just like punctuated shooting stars. You are my beau, you know, and there will never be another. The traveller that sides with me. Under our feet is grass and under the grass is dirt, where worms and untold hordes of insects march their dignified lives on. A slug is a friend and he is part of me and is my other. When he mates, his sliminess flanges out into a wide petalled flower. He is as beautiful as any one of us and more because of his direct actions. He trails the sea with him. His skin is the carrying of the sea. Let me carry the sea with me– the salty water of my blood is enough. Come swim in me as I swim in you. The ocean is the most foreign thing I know and everything that holds me.


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