The moon seems to have wandered off in these days of wane, tripping off through the fog at dawn, taking morning ambles through the flush of winter grays and blues. Stray sparks and the distant virtuosity of the mockingbird running scales and ensembles, the bare blade of the morning moon casting texture to the icy mist. The time it was taken as strolling off the menu, seeding myths of heart and hunt in the dreaming day. It goes until it’s gone, then it waits a few and comes bringing it on. A light in the eye, a taste on the tongue, the beckoning being a broken bowl. The curl of smoke upon the brow, the bellowing being a wind like dirty glass. So much to say at the hasp of the day. So much to stitch my lips to.

It goes without saying that nothing gets said, this rehashed revelation, these lines dead on arrival. The duty and the hedonia, the hiccups and hackles and no take backs, the blood bound to show. The flames of burning bridges, the soot of ensued ruins, the gossip and the games all pass by without snagging word or eye. So this daily dispatch flails at its roots as it blooms, all black wings and bright stars. So the flesh chills and the old bones bare their teeth. Something burns in the crisp air, a cooking scent, seared flesh and fruit notes. The written a record, the words all flags and ghosts.

The cold nights still come, the sharp stars and the ratty tapestry of clouds. The long nights still linger, the lows so bad they beat it into the bones. Nothing much happens when the moon goes missing, not a lot of magic in missing your mark. The earth at an angle and the sun hits just so, a story always saying something no matter what the story is, night and day and all the usuals. The lists and the litany, smoke in the sky and sundown any minute, the words that stick to the ribs and the songs. How ever long ago heaven, how ever far the star. Skin in the game no matter who’s playing, skin in the game even once the game is gone. Squeezed until the blood is dust.