Dear, what you’re imagining–if the colors came through

Been reading this book about spiritual solutions. Keep thinking: yes! yes!

And how positive thoughts have higher vibrations.

Everything moves. Or if not, goes stale.

So I sat in the bath, read, thought about you.

Perhaps you’re grumbling before bed, writing though your fingers are cold because the space-heater just isn’t working properly in your home. And though you love the cold, as you told me once you do, the night seems to stretch on for ages. A long field in Wales, perhaps, though there are no sheep and the side of the road is not littered with hedgehogs.

Perhaps you’re trying to write despite the cold. And thoughts of work, of the bus, or even the Liverpool sun, which hasn’t shone its face in ages, crosses your mind with a weight heavier than when he left.

But can you see it! Just in the corner,


An imaginary beetle. Count on it the fingerprints of God. Tiny at first, then larger, until whole rooms swim with them, laughing at the windows for trying to keep out the goodness of things.

I wish you could see the words I want to say.  And no amount of writing could place myself there. Or you here. Or us in Yorkshire like we always said we’d go. Probably not. The colors of words don’t exist yet. Such as, when I say


the biology of words, unknown.

Imagine us in India, trying to find the Mother to word-bodies!

I said I would write.

Perhaps you’re waking.  And your orange scarf is missing.

The beetles lie unattended. And something keeps calling in your hipbone.

Cold, you think.

It’s just the cold.

Or the tips of things turn blue. Like some coral eye of whatever desire cooled when sleep left its body for yours.

But I tell you: the bus spills with love-gone-depressed. Look at everyone’s hair!

And the shoulder of the road holds its body to you like  prayer.

Don’t keep things to yourself..

And now you’re writing the sky’s love for you in the window, blue fingertip pressed to glass.

And now the sky, grey as ever, keeps secrets from the shoulder of the road–your collarbone,

left in a field of orange scarf–

your body, a bluejay

trapped on a wire, on the fence-line, a score-sheet

for beetles with the finger prints of God, first small, then larger,

until the breath of the bus toward Liverpool sings

a song I know you know. I know you know I write

what you’re imagining–if the colors came through–



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