We talked for 56 minutes,
according to Skype,
and if anyone else had said that precise a figure
I would have called them a liar.
I have been drifting in the hours since.
Lazily doing laundry, dusting, cleaning the solitary dish.
Listening to Eno again and again and again
(as you know my fondness for repeat; may it never falter!).
Watching the sun creep forward in the sky,
I type in a vain attempt to reconcile the
distinct advantage thought has over word spoken or written.
It can fill the crevices, the divides that we long to reconcile
with words, that we try to fill like a gutted bathtub.
Like flinging paper cups of water on a burning building.
Thought will always push further and, in turn,
We just have to settle for knowing.
Knowing you are there and I am here, a knowing that
spans the oceans and endless miles between a thought
and a dream.
A patter of rain on the streaky window, a rinse cycle in the washer,
a lazy Saturday afternoon dangling, a flickering promise of a productive day.
Content in my heart’s core (a foreign land) and the rain picks up in tempo
as if to offer permission for spending the day staring at that big bold window.
I retreat today to push forward tomorrow.