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I would settle for a little fever, some small note measured in romance and future tense. A pane of glass, spattered with the relics of sainted insects, dusted with the insistence of material existence. The feel of cold water seething through hard teeth, that often longed for mouthful somewhere between speech and a kiss. It is in the sheen of expectant flesh, the work of the world proving to us that the only certainty is our own permeability. The stars are out, the moon is melting. The road only answers to open.

I could count it in the minutes, I could call it by the miles. It could be in the salts and oils the longed for shower will wash away. I could have lost it so long ago it is only the shadow of memory pushing back against the flow of time. That gathering glance, that magic carpet. The camera revealing so much more in the moment missed. The bird in the sky, the cage angry metal empty.

There is no need to clear the air. There is no cause to speak at all. Let these masks enter their own vicious orbits, the morning paper blemish on such otherwise innocent hands. Let the songs spiral slowly down to their inevitable ends. Backyard gardens and weathered fences. That scent of hope that accompanies only the worst of storms. The quiet house gives solemn testament. Dust and gather, time and whether, all things follow their lamented trajectories. The precious and the chosen, the reviled and the slowly bled. Everything will be forgotten.