pitch

The storm breaks in cold gray phrases, long apologies and sudden good-byes. The only rain running out of the clotted gutters, drizzling down the eaves. The only wind the breath seeping out between tongue and tooth. Something like relief, audible for just only a moment. Something like a sigh, this evening of slight pressures. The rain seems like a stranger by the end of a few hours. Introduction the only edge left.

I would sleep at the ends of the ocean. I would sleep by the rhythm of breaking tide. Dowsed by the ice of salt and water. Cradled by the wreck of the unseen rocks below. Then maybe the dreams would find me, scattered as so many cold and oily ashes. Then maybe these dreams would want me, where senses would awake. Instead I drift by the trailings of moonlight. Instead I drown in the shadows that abide.

There is a moon lighting the way home in the sky. There is a day fading and a dream alive. To be left like luggage, soaking on the tarmac. To be lost like faith, these chewed bones and sifted shines. Caught here in this enraptured rabbit daze, swaying in the crowded fields. Caught here in the butcher shop silence, immediate and sharp and steel. Something unseen just slips into view, and dissolves like so much winter rain.