It is the song that ends at the nearest knuckle to your nose, the gauntlet tossed at the point of impact, the spill melodic at the advent of your mouth. It is the song that meets your fingers in the persistent chill, the bespoke faith of tattered breath and leadened heart, word upon word until the spindle clatters empty within the idiom. In the spin and spill, the feathery collection of elements all a glitter, the recipe there in the very air as the whole of the world hums along. It comes around to go around, the tragedy of the emphatic, the gravity at work baffling the bits and pieces with big picture givens. It is the singing best left to the stars.
It’s a TV theme, it’s a train in the night, it’s the answer you shout aloud because it isn’t what you’re thinking. The words keep on passing through, every allusion a portion of a resurrection, each inkling a disinterment and an incandescence. Every song winds up a singalong. It’s all invocation, it’s all where you put your hands. A rustle and a tumbling, the sound of sticks and stones. You anticipate the echoes once you live it all alone.
There’s just the one thing I have been saying. There’s just these words wasted with missing the mark. Scribbled symbols where the speech would have been. Flags that unfurl to become the wind, the insistent telling the ring around the moon before the rain falls, this gnashing of teeth and beating of bones. It is the voice of the rigging’s complaints as the sails fill and the vehicle trades meaning for mechanisms, the structure always trying to skip ahead in the story. An act of braggadocio, a birthday left uncelebrated, breadcrumbs scattered for the birds. This is the shape I am making, working out a way to say.