Finished and yet undone, life pools most readily in the shallow ends of these moments, shoulder tapped by obligations, the shotgun waiting in the closet for its work. The dry leaves doused by rake and shadow, steel tines dragging up the dust. The sun settles all its bets and wanders off to better days. Dusk then night, then the inevitable verbiage of irreducible waste.
Like the mass listening for that breathless latin, for the assured benedictions and the work of heartfelt words, the house closes off its windows and its doors. Heat, trapped in these cautious rituals, fevers what flesh is left. Heart sweat, work sweat, the meaty precipitation of this incongruous spirit. Close the eyes and there is a swaying like branches. Close the eyes and it is the life of the wind.
It all hurts, the labor and the lack of labor, the purpose and the aimlessness that ensues. Beauty and its absence, love and its application. The wounds of this ordinary manifestation. Coffee and heredity, the useless derivatives of blood and hope. Dead end it, and still you ripple in hints and essence throughout the graspings of time. The broken machine, subdued and faulty and alone, still seethes into the atmosphere. Sometimes complexity is the simplest solution. Outlaws and in-laws, and the same gracious mistakes earnestly trying their hardest. Genes and memes, and endless words clattering like shattered teeth on the floor.