Prose Fragment

maybe I won’t sleep tonight or half sleep it’s all cold outside gooseflesh and the sound of her breathing how will tomorrow turn out not like this one if I don’t write this book now like really write it I never will and maybe that’s what needs to happen acceptance or acknowledgement of what’s been broken and can’t get put back together I don’t need to do anything heroic to live a good life still there’s hope buy a farm knit back together with the land grow old accept growing old let my hair go grey let N’s I used to think this meant surrender but now I think maybe it’s a way out of the mesh of technologies and habits we call sexual freedom which is really just a reaction a violent reaction to self-congratulating self-hating Victorian morality the fertility of the land is the fertility of the body I’ve killed so much unwanted life sperm ova embryos weeds insects we all do it’s like the collective’s been separated person by person in a laboratory we’ve cut the ties between eating and farming loving and creating life