9.00

Maybe the same streets and the same houses, their old bones buttressed in years of paint. But now the trees, a grand cedar here or the spruce the grandkids bought for grandma in 1982 (that she planted at that place in the fence where the neighbors could see through). None of it new except this time it's on the way home. Driven by, time and again, but never really seen. Now from the bus there is time to notice pictures hanging from vibrantly painted walls and yards full of roses blooming on into fall. From here the airwaves taste of different scenery also: The way they vibrate off the tongue is more readily answered in the chest and more distinctively global and timeless. The body has asked that hereafter all that is received be new, be pure. It asks for the abandonment of recent history to further the cause of authenticity, a cause that overturns the parting the moving should've brought. It means, instead, turning toward the body that became the god in head. Hello body. Nothing about you is unfamiliar, even the worst you can be, which you sometimes hang on your neck between us as if the beast in you could possibly be forgotten. Body, this body sees you entirely, in wavelengths of astonishing talent and masked need, the one you keep primarily from yourself. And even after so much witness, this body says go and be every part of you over and over. For this new place in genuineness beholds yet unutterable proclamations of acceptance, assuredly; but passionately, the swelled anticipation of your every possibility. Now on the bus alone this fallen night, rolling by trees parked in yardskirts of old houses, thoughts of self and this other shroud aurorally, and my, my... from the street-side windows they surely see the glow.

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