He gave me that Rumi book when I left. I shoved it in my handbag, didn’t think much of it at first, but it crept up on me, like a street lamp.

“There’ll be lawyers in heaven before you see somethin’ so good again.” She went

—What is it about wine, Harry? —What d’ya mean? —What is it that cures us? —Made to glorify the gods. And dull the idiots. Here, have a little more.

I recalled the myth that I had once heard as a university student—thirty-six hidden saints in the world, all of them doing the work of humble men, carpenters, cobblers, shepherds. They bore the sorrows of the earth and they had a line of communication with God, all except one, the hidden saint, who was forgotten. The forgotten one was left to

He would use the very moisture in his eyes to test for it.

bedstead

He couldn’t be an ordinary priest—it wasn’t the life for him; he was ill defined for it, he needed more space for his doubt.

There are rocks deep enough in this earth that no matter what the rupture, they will never see the surface. There is, I think, a fear of love. There is a fear of love.

When I was seventeen I had a body that Adam woulda dropped Eve for. Hot-potato time. It was prime, no lie. Nothing in the wrong place. I had legs a hundred miles long and a booty to die for. Adam woulda said to Eve, Eve, I’m leaving you, honey, and Jesus himself woulda been in the background saying, Adam, you’re one lucky motherfucker.