oct. 24th

I imagine the poet waking up in the morning with the love of god upon his skin taking god in with this tea and honey on his lips. Does he go to work? Does he ride trucks all day making deliveries of wood or food or tables and chairs? Or is the poet fed and clothed and housed by those who do those things. Encouraged to write and love and nothing else. Write and love and nothing else. In my heart the poet is embracing the beloved in his arms, holding and rocking in the crevice between the breathing and the beating. Holding and rocking breathing and beating.