Sunset and the day closes shop, balls up the leaving light and tosses it aside. The atmosphere spills, shadows spill like sand through clumsy fingers as the fist of night slowly closes, the shining sky squeezed until we see stars. Smoke spills into the husk of heaven, the crow swept winds soften and still. The break of the horizon, the magic of the becoming moon, the tug and tension within mid and skin. The moon unseen, a call a hunger a prophecy. The card you cut naming you now.
The dusk swells, the forms fade and fill. The tongue of telling lolls, drowsy with smoke and summers, the road runs down the street. Every night the cracks in my heart. Every night I wake and unwind. This story of bones and beatings, of stones and glass and sorrow. This drift amid the days and the dead, feeding every fiend. The fire burning hotter and brighter as the night arises from whispers and twilight. The flame the moon the feast.
Again the night comes unattended. Again my station is all prayer and paint. The ache and the drag and the dull report of this native frame. The grumbling joints and the jealous guts, the old engine, the broken seals. And all at once, the moon arrives, carefree and casual and offhandedly divine. Through treetops and above the architecture she beams and beckons. Smoke curls, a paltry offer for plenty of the show. Shining through the measure of the spread, a slow read for the long of night.