This month's Granary share.
as with pure thought and coupling,
are strenuous exercise for a time,
as when keeping a large home
And though I've never really been there,
I'll gladly take you, since I used to stroll that path.
These days, I savor every step as we run
because of something I ought to have forgotten,
left on a coffee table years and years ago
with both a pen and a shoe.
I recall that corruption was suspected in my friend's disappearance
as the dimming of my memory makes old conclusions seem less certain
freeing me of the shackles of those decisions
leaving me with only a spectral, aching fog of those skirmishes.
I was told that Flannery O'Connor died of Lupus at the age of thirty nine,
a copious editor and whittler, all or nothing at the foot of the cross-
few are given faith's fruit but are shown clarity by a sort of faith,
meanwhile, the aim of granite monuments remains constant.
As long as a roof remains over our heads.
having taken a similar, lonely road between weathered ranges,
this I know-
only the count of the flock is less consistent with distance
than the stars that remain our constant companions
in imaginary, earth-bound astral journeys.
The hope? That our hearts and minds, unfettered by milling, leaden ideals
may yet find a sporting chance
outside this thicket of thorazine, Zoloft and corn syrup.
Perhaps a long nap might help,
but it's more likely that, in the pre-dawn hours,
we might find those companion stars in our eyes and pockets
as Jove's orb rises over the westering hills.