Lately, I’ve taken to hour-long lunches: food nibbled on at leisure, midday napping in the grass, and poetry pocketbooks. I drop the edge of the blanket under the sunshine to warm my toes and soles, and tuck the rest under the shade. It’s 80 now, but with the regular appearance of a cool breeze, the air retains the impression of being less. Today, my companion is Leonard Cohen. His sultry poems slide past my lips as a mimed monologue, one blending into the next. Then comes the added rhythm of dodging the nuns in my head who toss shock and shame at my afternoon affair. “Shhh!” I shout in rebellious reflection, like an apostle seeking a psalm to reconcile humanity. But the epiphany is not impressed upon the soul via knee caps or constitution. It is not sipped in, from silver goblets or whispered behind velvet guilt. This truth permeates the ordinary. It slips in from syllabic temptresses who press me to finish before the nuns return.
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