The sun has had its say, the day blue and blinding, the road long and steady. Traffic is the answer, who am I, why am I here, those dullards questions cast towards the sky and stars. Traffic is the course of time spent on strangers, of these lonely crowds. Tumult and cacophony, riot and calumny, the trials of the ordinary, the trauma of the everyday. I watch raptors catch the high wind. I watch the world abide as I drive on dully in a row.
Dusk has gone through the motions, shutting all the curtains and pulling down the blinds. All the light left trickles and shines, seeping out of windows, spilling into the street. Stray cats yowl and scrap, making claims and marking borders. There is the garbage can clatter and the clop of heavy feet. The gutter's thirst is never slaked, its hunger never sated. Night is the only notion left us, where the clocks run down. Night is all we have, here where every hand is emptied.
You call down the shadows, wound tight in the tidings of the night. You shed skin after skin, change with every touch and tether. You are the orphan of dreams and the bride of the midnight chimes. I chide you with each bone deep ache, carve such pretty valentines from your smile. The hour stretches, full of song and strain. Even the most precious blessings are bound to the pull and press of time. Even the most cherished bruise will fade, your face falling from the light.