I wasn’t going to write this morning, for no good reason – I have the sea and the jungle in me like always, and the resounding words I offered a friend yesterday: “You have to show up to the page, every day” – ever the advice-giver – but in my own morning I was about to rush into business, though I have no business being busy – that’ll be the death of me and I have a life-long commitment to attend to; language, tongues of fire, pages of memory, I am here to pay attention, to be an example of deliberateness, to do everything as writerly as comes natural to me (which it always has) – every face I see tells me what keeps them up at night – I plant trees in a storyline, whispering well wishes, wondering what the world will be like then – I rise and fall as the heroin of a hundred romances – silently, I recite prayerful poetry as we walk down the stone ramp to the sea, the waves traveling from the warm north on the wings of an untimely spring – but your lips interrupt my piety, cold wet kisses – just as spring has interrupted my misery – could it be that the worst is over? the wheel turns and we turn with it, in cycles deigned to instruct and integrate the lessons of our incarnation, and if it’s not with you it’ll still be, we know – if you could feel the way I looked at you, you would remember forever, like riding a bicycle – another cycle passes us by, another call to the flight company, another morning of love-making, but it feels like the first time every time, perhaps the way we’ve appointed it, the way we’ve kept my leaving always a moon’s throw away…