The limitations of the wind, the dry breath of the broken earth, the surrender to ritual when there is little that is not rote in play. Bleary eyed, slaughtered, defeated in that staggered gait, in that familiar sway. Miserable heat and wicked light. Ants trail towards any spill or shock.
Habits of heft, habits of duty. The old way of having no way at all. Watching a crow fly east to west at sun rise, seeing secrets in that wish for the fleeing night. Stiff shoulders and glowering aches, the song of work in our attachments to our bones. The awful hack work of all those candle smoke intercessors, the calm that is not calm, the stillness that is being stuck in one moment, frozen where the world wants to break.
The sky fields its chosen angel, that burning blue that does not relent or regard. The music is supple and weaves its way through the patch work pieces of time bled flesh. Always in the wrong place, always keeping the wrong time. So much for the rhythm section. So much for the blessing of a bridge. Those sightless eyes staring toward some fixed lost purpose. Another day, another shallow grave.
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