Friday, January 21, 2011

ink

The calendar empties out, a day then a day and then another. There is nothing there. Scraps of paper, heaps of numbers. Dust and the rigor of dreams, the sunken surety of ink. Word after word after hollow word. The wind picks up and gnaws upon the moon. The swaying trees, the sound of sirens drifting off.

There isn't room enough, all of these nights , all of these names. There isn't time enough, all of eternity unwinding past the horizon. It doesn't matter, awake or sleeping. I can only see what the light has hounded. Moonlight, starlight, the painted firmament and the discarded sun. I can only see to the end of my eyes.

Every thought is lead and steel. Blood the only currency left to wager. There is a howling threaded through my lungs, a rattling held within my ribs. The heart idles, the heart tries to beat down each door. It was written, it was read. The work of bones, the drift of fingers. The evidence that there is no proof left.

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