I want Whitman to knit a sweater for me, something out of fallen leaves and everything he has seen.
I realize I’m only as smart as the things I read. I want God to make something new,
I wonder if I would even recognize it. Would we cadge it, sell it, exploit it, shove a camera in its face. I remember I haven’t been to the woods in some time. I should make more time for trees and nature. Everything likes to be heard. I should make more music. I should tap into the vein that carries my poetry and nourish the healthy habits. I should make rituals, write your walls, rich you all, rich your falls, visceral.
don’t let your love clot.