The constellations leaned hard upon the roof tops, shedding their dense mythologies off the eaves. Their stories mingle with the fecund dreams rising from the drowsing rooms and the sleeping windows. Some rise like vapors, some fall like leafs, nothing lost or wasted. The world will use every piece, a value for every part lost or discarded. Life shimmers, changing states. Life moves at odd angles, shining all the while.
Wake before the sun sets sail, your days are curdled in the dawn. The lingering stars, the fervid planets, the glow of the earnest horizon. Your dreams break, and the silence leaves you slow. It leaves as if it loves you, in fond theatric reluctance. The romance of it never quite fails. The bonds of days and the abandon of night, being rapt by the show but never part of either. As dusk drowns the last embers, the clatter of other lives abrupt and slick in the vast periphery, you mark the margins and leave your thoughts. Sleep is a distant nation, lost here in human works.
Late blooms and aged patina, the luster of experience and the vivacity of passions yet alive, the autumn aches and pleases. Blue skies and baking smells, backyard barbecues and the teeming works of ants. Even out here, in the stones and bristles, in the squandered and the meager, you still glow. Sickness coils through the clockwork of your guts, fresh pains and palsied feelings new every day. But the streak of a falling star, the lift of flight, the dark timbre of a vulture perched beside a satellite dish-- simple moments still draw your smile. The story line is tangled and knotted, but it continues to travel just the same.