It lands like flag planting Apollo, touches down as if deified by the occasion, the flesh the apparent heir to the pursuit of day. It lands like the twist off notes spilled from hook or bridge, a progression that frees itself from context by meddling with your head. The sky seeps slow and gray, spilling from the window, leaving by the door. The instrument growls and rasps, what complaints they carry they sink in the soil, becoming background and landscape upon insistent interrogation. Not the ceaseless ingress of the window, not the left open door on a day heavy and uncaring. Still somehow a light shines through.
It’s not parallel to the strut and the story. It’s not the divergence of actions into separate worlds one room over. The day has its way and the words follow their usage, torrents and showers and unearthly powers, worked into the just so skull in a just so world. The skin wakes to the spirit of the shine, the soul of the ordained sun a wash of colors, a swatch pad of earnest hues for would be walls. The skin wakes before the alibi, before even the appetite and the crown. A candle left burning, a prayer somewhere, the brush of earthly thought against your name. The brilliance you feel to your bones.
Out the gate the day outclassed me, I was out of the running before I found my step. The light goes missing and stays that way. I smoke on the cold brick and cracked cement porch, the coiled plumes climbing up the eaves, the dull day running out behind me. Meager wants that are unachievable, a reaching wildly against the facts as the ends close in, the writhing despite the done. Old man dithering at the end of a played out day, missing all the what if worlds and one sided loves. A story despite the epilogue. A lens is left if nothing else. A way the words once tried.