Up until this sore minute, you could turn the key, pivot away. 
But mine is the only medicine now 
wherever you go or follow. 
The past is so far away, but it flickers, 
then cleaves the night. The bones 
of the past splinter between our teeth. 
This is our life, love. Why did I think 
it would be anything less than too much 
of everything? I know you remember that cheap motel 
on the coast where we drank red wine, 
the sea flashing its gold scales as sun 
soaked our skin. You said, This must be 
what people mean when they say 
I could die now. Now 
we’re so much closer 
to death than we were then. Who isn’t crushed, 
stubbed out beneath a clumsy heel? 
Who hasn’t stood at the open window, 
sleepless, for the solace of the damp air? 
I had to get old to carry both buckets 
yoked on my shoulders. Sweet 
and bitter waters I drink from. 
Let me know you, ox you. 
I want your scent in my hair. 
I want your jokes. 
Hang your kisses on all my branches, please. 
Sink your fingers into the darkness of my fur.

Sink Your Fingers into the Darkness of my Fur by Ellen Bass

Happy Sunday.

Hans Richter ~ The Blue Notebooks (full album)