the point is

the day has come when my father is texting me

and not only that, that it is not surprising

and the medium is not even the point, the point is:

he is on the Bart in the Bay, and

I am shaking my head at my longing, thinking

wanderlust is what makes wanderlust,

why did I leave here and return only to miss being there again?

and that is not even what's making me achy, what aches is:

what this week shows. what this week shows is:

the enactment of ideals does not equal bliss.

today was a day about processing out through my body

This week is called:

beauty in what's achy because it's complicated.

and I write that in the facebook thread with old friends about

'what is your week called?'

and the point is not even that it's on the computer, now.

The point is not even who that is excluding

the point is not even what the ideals are.

the point is.

the point is not.

daysleeping

you were in my dream last night, last afternoon, last hours
you and you and you and all of us were in little vignettes of moss and dusk
and mode and carriages with plush velvet cushions, a pumpkin pulled by
oh!
considering her eyelashes against a cheek, the curve she scooped
into a shellshape on the grassy hill above the hudson, a pile of leaves you long
promised we would hide ourselves under (but we lost you to the wolves
long before the autumn fell) and all of your pairs of lips and palms revolving
as if to catch the sun