So it is the scintillance of wind and leaf, abundant boughs swaying in the long last light as the sun sets off and the world falls away. So it is the anticipation of the spill of stars in the bright sky shine between shifting sheaves of greenery and this mottle of light and shadow. The dirty windows, the weary doors. A porch thick with sound and smoke. Some wishes so tired and improbable they are a burning holes in my breath, these afflictions so resolute, the crows coming home to roost. Empty in, empty out, the soul just a whisper when it shouts. Dusk comes, a curtain drawn so slowly it seems still, heaven still photos and plagiarized shine.
Night is here, always written inside the eyes, always sleeping beneath the skin. The awake world a car alarm, a buzzing fly, the old ghost glow of a sitcom laugh track. The ache unswayed by your capacity to assuage, the ache the meat on the mat. This wilt of words across the surface as the senses make a mess. Just curses and revelations and the gruesome highlight reels, patterns in the ceiling that read a room and go with your mood, eyes awake and terribly aware of the ins and outs of the here and now. The skeletons from your closet dragged to the curb, the portal turning with gritted gears the dreams into dust.
The cracked pavement, the slabs of sun, Gilda gleaming black in the lap of another afternoon. Sore to the bones and seeing stars I am all intent and bellows, puffing clouds and sowing fire, the empty set of a settled bet. Ill from root to crown, I shift with the soil slowly changing tense, this long sentence served awaiting punctuation. The trees wave and bow beneath the fickle wind as another day makes way, this bright hour unto the gloaming. This ruin cast in glowing embers and the gemstones glitter of the roiling swarms. This organ grinder turning the song over in its grave, dancing with the monkey though the monkey’s long gone.