[1] This world is shot

with desire, from the first breath, the first suck on the breast; it seems so

the more I think or don’t think.

[2] Last night sitting in a car a friend unfolded a cloth mural of grief, delicately woven with past complaints, accusations, and desires for something else, something transcendental, unseen, and thus always incomplete.

Here when a son dies in a war, they give you a folded flag to keep. So was it a flag instead, that conversation, waving at half mast for a dying marriage?

[3] A comment that was made to me: “I am surprised at your ability to stay alone for years at end.”

A response I didn’t give: “This is because my loneliness is a devious interrogator who is skilled in the use of Chinese water torture. Ever listened to the clock drip each second on your forehead? You will have to pretty much embrace me to discern the physical map of pain”

[4] Gossiping about the troubled loves of an young woman acquaintance you find yourself laughing

at her charming directness and unbridled romanticism in taking on new lovers in order to discover the one father of her unborn children,

and at your even more comical cynicism towards her saga as you recall your dog awful howls at the drowning tide after midnight, every night.

[6] I write this obscure line because like the concealed wood thrush, I too have fallen into the habit of posing a question, and a moment later providing an answer myself, repeatedly, less musically.