Dawn finds Orion on his ear, his libidinal tilt spilling into the day. The flocks make their margins, wings adrift, the travel from dark to light spreading through the air. Children have decorated the sidewalk, rocket ships and pastel hearts. Children leave their evidence strewn all around the block. The world is theirs before they know it. The world is theirs, secure beneath their piled up dreams.
The light abides with a kind of radio static, mixed with a steady dose of knotted night. The shadows stick to the shrubs, they cling to the fencing, and the cracks in the foundation. The day dives straight into this waking haze, eyes rubbed red just from seeing. The day makes its way, all sway and stride. The sky is littered with fading stars.
Each start is lined with errors, each awakening rimmed with dreams. It seems so cold until things begin their motions. It seems so still until you realize everything is on the march. The overcast heavens, the underfed moon. Things race past, the unbound statuary leaving nothing but streaks and shadows. It would pass you by, save for all the little hooks and tethers that drag you in its wake. A child's story made from grown up things. Pretty lights and teeth marks, little gifts and the unimaginable price.
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