Spring blesses the bandwidth with resonant hues of greens and blues, wrangled from the sky and the hotshot sun, drawn from the earth like an expectant breath. Wings spun from shine and appetite paint the sun streaked atmosphere in feathers and flight, sparrows and finches and the innumerable invertebrates in swirls and dashes, patterns of lift and hunger left to add heft and blur to the periphery. Birdsong and calls to alarum as the day leans in. The afternoon a soft stir, gentle like a prayer, lofty like an admonition. A hush of wings, and every shoot aiming for the sun.
So I knot these braids of smoke. So I waste my breath on words. The day takes it all at once, the day takes it in chips and pieces. I sit between the acts and the impacts, full and empty with the trend of the sky, vessel of shadow vessel of sun. The day ends with this world begun, the drift of blood and the rift of witness, the west a blinding band. These scattered sentiments, the song there in the phrasing, the words left to contend. The ache in the architecture, the worn down matter and the desecrated mind. I wind my springs and spin my wheels, an oxidized machine, an ode to obsolescence.
There’s nowhere to go, there’s none who’d have me, I’m the sharp shards where the social compact got broken off. The circus without even peanuts for pay, the tightrope and the trapeze acts without even the witness of a net, mismatched skill sets and forgotten cants. All appetite without aptitude, all moon and mountain when the bills come due. No one’s giving up even the least of hints, and I haven’t got a clue. I close my eyes and feel the sun soak in, warming my bones in the moment. I open my eyes once the night rolls around, trying not to miss a trick. Bones and ash and the stars counting backwards. A story told in dust and teeth.