Monday, December 27, 2010

the blue of the morning, the bright of the moon

All the ordinary entanglements were lost by then, strangers in the forest, footsteps in the rain. I had walked for years in my own wake, wearing out the shape of circles, grinding down my stride. I had followed my own loss so closely I carried that air of completion. I seemed as if I had already spoken every last word. Ask heaven, and all it has are clouds on its face. Ask heaven, and everything is stars in its eyes.

My age caught up with me as I stood too early, a little uneasy without any light. My age caught up with me, just waiting in the road. The chill in the air, the distance in the shine in her eyes, the blue of the morning and the bright of the moon. I feel the shifting of weather with wings, the strained air clapping at the very act of flight. I feel the tilt of the world as the day falls away, calling every clock that will follow. My hands ache in the cool of dusk, pain like dread on fire. My fingers just tap out the count.

The numbers pause, then the numbers tumble. Fingers feel sore just knowing. Eventually accounting is abandoned, another lost faith to fade into myth. The words take the long way, around about the meaning. You ask the sky as if it listened. You ask heaven, and all the rest is listening.

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