it’s knowing that there could never be anything sexier than doing just what needs to be done just when it needs to be done and that most of the time it will be doing nothing at all
it’s lucy in the sky with mosquitoes
it’s the sounds of casual gun shots around the bend of this meadow and the soft wonderhowls of someone’s daughter around another
it’s joel’s larger, brotherly body around mine when I’m ecstatically cold
it’s the tao of christ
it’s plain saying
but it takes so long o lord
it’s when the smartest most exquisite dirty dance music becomes the hollowed husk left behind by the dragonfly in the july morning
it’s actually asking for what I need
it’s giving it to you good
it’s asking the man on his way out what he thinks about the whole scene
and it’s him telling you that all the streams end up humbled into the ocean because it’s lower than they are
it’s carrying the light
it’s voguing to myself in circles around this fire under the yellow crescent lune with thom in the headphones singing how come I end up where I started how come I end up where I belong and then throwing the headphones off into the many-possibled sky it’s
abundantly clear
it’s what robbie meant when he said gone
are the early stages
it’s learning to unlearn
it’s already knowing that I’m inside of love with you because you’ve come to know yourself and we know it’s the same thing
it’s the yellowwhite gestures of the meadow in the daisies and nothing
else
it’s how you are
it’s how you hum at dusk
it’s the gift of the wound
it’s these brittled, pixelated, mellow-red wood chips from a fallen tree in my cupped hands like jackpot coins of plenty
it’s knowing that the elephant in the room is none other than—
it’s all the good fights I should have picked with you, robbing us of the sweet intimacy of conflict it’s
none other than love
it’s unsecretly, unhurriedly becoming my father, my mother
it’s getting away with it
it’s for the sake of synthesis
of cross-pollination
it’s knowing that the escorting of the sweet alien honeybee from the tent isn’t, isn’t, isn’t to keep her out, but to keep her wild
it’s lookaftering
it’s knowing that you’re here too
and how that could change everything
it’s lying skin-grass in the mute afternoon letting the ants know me
it’s the dried character of the wood you gather and in it the engraved longing of the wind surfing on itself before tossing it into the fire
it’s my pretentious (throw it)
shallow (onto the fire) peace
it’s gathering your latest attachments (this too) to be burned (this too)
to remember that what’s real doesn’t
die, and remembering
and humming at dusk
it’s the oregon plainness
this just-enough desert
it’s what rainer and walt and edward estlin meant
it’s what I wanted all along