you are in the middle of | a transformational process | she said | which began 24 human months ago | does that mean it’ll end and if so how | there are no guarantees | I told my almost lover | it was cold by the window | and he walked away I wanted to too | but where would I go
Driving down the canyon, sun slanted, squinting, listening to Joan Didion talk about her faith, it occurs to me: this is not death, this is moving on. I repeat it over and over, never having learned this before,
1. Shana Tova. How has it been? he asks, | the beautiful man with the sad eyes who I see each year | on this day, in the same spot, his tallis on his | shoulders, his white kipah covering his head. | Rough, I say.
