At the dull, dwindling end of the day with the glow of a light bulb, black robes and speckled flesh. At the shrugged shoulders and crossed arms of the day, the portion given to the mark of mind and myth, the portents of the ones to come. Strewn across the subtle shifts of stars, the ashes abandoned while the fire held out, the words once you leave the words behind. The cold hands offering up their warmth, the place where you wake within the song. Bones waiting for the stillness, the mystery all astir.
It’s the moment where the smoke turns over. It’s the moment that’s taken by the wind. The glass of cool water, the bluster of the bathroom fan. The light that comes from right around the corner. The light that creeps in from the back yard. The signal keeps sending, the signal keeps showing up. The echoes dancing between the rooms, the shadows dashing between lights. Sore to a breath, sore to the stitch, the drift among the consonants once the name is spoken. The magic by the mouthful.
It’s okay, but these are not your neighbors. It’s just fine, but this place isn’t mine. The long arc, the slow burn out of sync with the local physics. Something to strain the credulity of the naked eye. The days are strained, the nights all but surrendered to the bumps and beasts. Comes the telling, comes a train. Gone from the writing to the rain, the reach before the words arrive. Gone from the record, gone to where the earth meets the dreaming.