I want to say it’s the angle of the light, but it’s just that the sun’s in my eyes. I want to say it’s the breadth of the color, but that’s just moving the blocks around. I know it’s the sadness, I know it’s the smoke, I know it is the curse upon my blood and the mark upon my brow. The world as a whole is made of the breaking, the dirge unto dissolution, the spin around the old dance floor. The pieces on your party dress. The dust kicked off your heels. It’s just me and the words and old mr sun. The brick to the bean, the luck of the draw. It’s the smoke, and the sorrow, and the lay of the light.
Sparrows come in waves and hungers, in fads and schemes and minor invasions. The dogs dash past trailing clouds of dust. Crows loud upon the precipice of the periphery, calling their kin and comrades to plot and parley. Another may as well be May day, this winter of rain and small springs, this long toothed afternoon taking a dive. Here at the tattered end of eternity, with dead dog relics and the exponentials coming due. A day like any other with all these nevers coming on hard.
It is the sun in my eyes, the refracted rainbows filtered through eyelashes, the intimacies of dust motes and sunbeams and the visions of childhood. It is the ferocious continuity, the slow drawled devouring time treats you to, the years all gone in a breath. The narrative continues without dialogue, the constant expository moving in a relentless litany, this then this then this and the building attrition. The ensemble becomes the chorus, the chorus just becomes the audience, the audience the witness, the witness the dream. Weeping from the setting sun. Weeping once the setting’s done. This sorrowful sojourn from the going to the gone.