The day leaves without saying, the sky astir, the earth in ruins. The day is gone without a single glance, the signal of at least glancing back never received or sent. Just foundlings in the fundaments, the same old feelings dashed into the ground, a change in the air as the skin finds out. Something dead and something dear, a reach through the blue and past the sway, roots and crowns and right of ways. Scratching at some surface of the world that didn’t show, the imagination burning bright, perception goes another way. Now the time and the insistence of the husk, slowly this dance from want to quintessence, pared down by the path.
This dusk and the ways left wanting, the cool hue of shade upon the pavement, the constant proffer of used smoke. Adrift in the drawling traffic, a fixture of inconsequential transience, the proffer and the appetite. Knowing the streets by the corner and curbs, signs parked at the intersection, sigils in paint and glass. The winds lean wild and the empty opens up, a car or two then graven pavement. Cool and futile flesh pressed against the sharp end of the moment, a direction to heel to and lament.
Mostly it is in the scraps of sky and haunts of moon, the weight of the proposition, the drag of the thought. The waiting it out while the once was or the wished for tries to have its say, the hot in the atmosphere, the slow throat of incense trickling into heaven. Clay and ache and relic bones, the words that never leave you alone, remembering the deception revealed before the final slight. The duration this seething heap of woe and sorrow, the sharpness leading each feel, the here and now only so much thanks but no thanks. This shelter, this animal, this switched on circuit. Another compass joining the pointing at the earth.
