You new Me

I have been hiding. Folds of love, fasting, fever, and then last week was a few days of driving around Shaftsbury, some Bennington with the voice of an old teacher creeping out of the car's speakers. There's been India, death, sand, sailing, love so wrong it tasted like lime and pepper even the first time I kissed it and I kept on kissing anyway.

I might have plowed through the entire summer, eating cigarette butts and licking skin, but the impending return of Labor Day always brings out the insufferable teacher in me, the eternal hated shame of necessary list making and tendency toward syllabi. The cleansing realization that there is need for more than mango and that limping along on 3 hours sleep feels drizzled but tends to deaden.

There is hardly a space on Molly that has not been filled, explored and adored and slipped in and ginned or thoughts of thoughts bigger than myselves and men and endings and havings and gettings and although it is another summer gone it’s never a season wasted.

I’m home to dusty piles of mail and I’m not empty.