I go to sleep most nights with the most obscene panic.
Questions and the desire for a cigarette.

After a frightening conversation I was given a picture.
If only I had the hands to paint.

[it is dark. the image and atmosphere.]

It is this:
God exists in my life as a tension that stands over my head.
Tied at one end is logic and understanding.
The other side is held up by childhood teaching and past interpretation.
And in the middle lies romanticism and the concept of an aesthetic Christ.

In the moments that are quiet: either peaceful or anxious.
God rests.
Just above me.

What is it that I see in music and old cars, landmass and hands?
I wish there were something substantial, something understandable to hold onto.

Angles and perspective. light through tires.
muted light on car windows.
This is time taken. Not a moment contrived.
Something happens to me on nights like this.
Even if I force myself to wonder if maybe all of this is man made,
God can not be denied.

I crave for these moments to be tangible.
Sweet, but filled with depth of understanding.
They ought to be fashioned as something bare but beautiful.
But I won't let the sweetness of it get in the way of sincerity.

It's in the marsh. In the songs.
In the misery of this not working.
The panic it brings to think that maybe I got it wrong.

I've somehow lost familiarity. The tone of your voice.
I wish I had a place where we could bump into each other.
Somewhere across town.
Somewhere I'd find you reading and drinking a cup of coffee.
Early in the morning. By chance.

Hair clean and only the window light.
Unpretty but happy.

I am ill with the notion of finality.

The scent still exists.

But patience is beautiful.