I never quite know which camera’s on. I never know which machine they mean. Everything goes up in smoke, the moon reigning above the clouds, a rustling from the box by the door. Everything is making maps and seeking out the circumstance. The stacks you make to throw away, the stars you’d cross to have it back. I guess I’ll leave the music on, I guess I’ll do the dishes. The rats conspire in the walls. The rain comes knocking on your night.
Relax— you don’t need to what’s up to go on. The straining towards the story doesn’t make it true. It’d be nice, it’d be cool— you the one with the crown of hearts and stars. Some words are there to witness, some words are there to claim. How you use them is between you and the game. All I know is the rain is falling. All I know is the wind is picking up. The pills in my palm that look like belt of Orion, the vitamin I swallow that reminds me of you. You’ll be there where I don’t make it. You’ll be fine going with the grain.
Each night is caught in a current, each night a sample taken in small doses. All the feathers and all the flowers. The unseen moon coming on to the core. The night goes on, the band plays on, the cat comes in from the reign. Some prince’s ransom, some poet’s price, as the bodies are stacked by the cord. The fleeting glimpse and passing fancy, then comes the weather and the ghost goodbyes. The old bones and the deep longings, the knowing I hold by the throat, the moment fitted to the will. The beckoning of the sacrifice, the wind summoned by the wings.