So there is but fire In you, in me?

Pulling photographs out of their albums. Looking for pictures to be printed on the order of service For my mother-in-law's funeral. Felt like I felt when Laying out the post holes at The Sanctuary Creating images of where bone or pottery or flint were found Lining post holes with planets, with the sun, with the moon Knowing That I will never know. The Sanctuary, Avebury, Wiltshire. UK. Even when 'the field' is now. I look at the plastic wrappers and cardboard discards that line the side of the road and say to myself 'processional way' knowing that identification of the processions and the classes of detritus fail, absolutely, to tell the whole story. The photographs It seems to me Must contain the fatal error. Each one holding a fragment Part to a whole Psychological disaster. At the end She lay On her back For two years. Septiceamia Because the skin breaks down, like a carpet burn Bacteria get in... Because she is in bed.

So... We were trying to KonMarie some more. Photos and letters And I found A eulogy for Grant Kendall Which ended with these words: Most of us can not appreciate that which drove him to the desperate act of this week. We can pray that he has found the peace that has alluded him for so long. I don't know who Grant Kendall was. I texted my friend, because his eulogy was among the letter that she sent me... And she doesn't know who Grant was, either. I will never know how this man's life history as told at his funeral, has become tangled up with letters to me... He was born in New York on May 8 1952. He died on Tuesday January 23 in 1990 at the age of 37, in San Jose CA... He left a poem The least I can do is spin it forwards: The Rain Tree. There was a long hallway to the rear door And in the door there was a small window about six by six with wire mesh in it so it couldn't be shattered. And through the window I could see A big

A reason not to write The truth is too horrible. No... The real reason? I've said it all before, therefore just listening to the music and enjoying the sensation of being alive should be enough. Though I have said it all before Reality is a slippery fish. Assuredly so. Therefore a person should always make notes and record as much as possible at the time. Especially so. Struggling with the truth is a worthwhile task. Never be swayed by those who take the long view ( nothing matters cause in the long view we are all dead!). Or the short view that just getting through this to a better place, without making any fuss is the best option. Anhedonia Is something I cannot put right by myself. Over a decade ago My partner picked up on my terror of erasure and played it back. Confirming my worst fears. Validating my deepest fear. So I climbed deep into the worst There was no other direction And destroyed any faith in him as someone who regarded me as his beloved

There is a video Couple of boys in a bedroom Twangly guitars Singing, A slow, hypnotic song About not being able to see what's coming The future Isn't there... And I imagine him walking along the rail-track. As if This song has always been In his head. I wrote: Time stopped__________________________________________Trains stopped Called you back ___________________________But you walked on________________________But you walked on Along metal lines that pulled you ______________ Over the glittering edge________________________Metal strings Singing_ Into________ Oblivion___________________The path________________________Each step a death Seeking ______________ Hypnotic lines________________as you walked Skin riven through___________________ Nerve-lines of ________________ Electricity____________ Labyrinth lines coil towards the mechanical___________________ Swallower of lines____________and lines____________and line___________of silver fate Offere