You wake within your summoned skin, a sting of blue a slash of white, and the sky on high spinning in circles chasing its tail. You say your prayers, hands high above your head, assuming that the projectile will adhere to the intention of its maker. You make your shapes, you turn the dial, more and more to feel a little less. The burn is the air, the burn is your flesh, the rust on the rails and the lichen on the stone. One more word will end it all, break your bones like the rumor to the rhyme. It all adds up, you think one more time. The numbers stick and stumble, the lying is all on you.
This fresh flesh remains unseen, working your schemes, pressing your levers. The tell comes from the wake your mind leaves behind, the rippling materials, the exposed beams and that touch of tongue to teeth. Your world blisters with your beliefs, the unspoken oaths boiling over into being, even these simple symbols enough to evoke the ache. The evidence will overwhelm, this wan insistence a warmth, a dot painted with red light right at the off switch of this life. Speak so all this truth takes flight.
This is the way in the earth. This is the way beneath the sea. The muttering rainfall, the weighted gutters, garlands of weeds hanging from the eaves. We are bodies at rest and in motion, the work of translation and evasion in our modified verbs, spells of effort and desire. You will want as all beings will, you will pick and choose among dreams and occurrences, even as little a nod or a lean just to steer the vessel. One day you stop broadcasting, you stop deliberating, the signal goes dark. A stipple of stars, a wish of wings, and a sky to string them all along.