The indulgent magic back about, the mystery running free, sink a stone behind the earth the shine that finds the moon. The book broken at the spine, the ash a second coming of the sin. The smoke and stones in equal numbers, the numbers plugging in, it is within the becoming. The story at its most, as we bathe in the ricochet of sun and cinder, everyone with something to say. The crossroads blur with traffic, the center all around.
It is a boast, it is a blessing, a passing of the flame in the gathering of light. The burden of the repetition to keep the beat. The silken rocks of ritual, the press of flesh and bone, the pathways at the intersections. The tensile strengths of steel and skin. All the rapture of the arrival passing through, another emanation of the station while the passengers change. The words behind all this wanting and the way each word becomes you. The containment of location in the entity you breathe out.
I am just the notation of intention. I am the sheets to bear the score. The shine climbing the drear dying tree. The figures you see if you stare. You sing out and the song is there. You listen and the music looms. The gaze when the moon goes looking, the appetite when the hunger speaks. The drowsy bloom of shape and languor, the body there and gone. The chorus that joins in your least inkling, the orchestra that lets loose wild thunder at your whim. Your heart beats out its ellipses, your breathing knowing the score. You at once all want and will, the magic in your mouth.