It must be that fragment of the moon, loitering in the treetops. It must be that brushed steel taste of the winter longing to leave, seeping through my teeth. Some spell of dusk and sweat, some weaving of mistake with truth. You suddenly so close I smile at the stretch and pry of you. Those bones so deft and solemn, your back bare to the shifting of the evening. Your flesh dense and electric, so warm and pressed to my touch. A dream quickly cleared from my throat, the air so crisp and wanting.
The world shifts in its skirts, working the ocean into a gallop, its teeth frothing at the bit. We awake lost, our allotted tragedy interrupted by some feat of thunder. All these border skirmishes and murder cults diminished by the ambivalence of the earth. The abstract shadows we mistook for gods now gone beneath the source of the casting. A moment too bright to remember. Light and my gaze enveloping your skin. Even your shine a changed station once this tide returns.
Even the clear sky weighs and wearies. Even the cold water scratches at the catch in your throat. A kiss or acrimony? The devil so very deep and blue. These tremblings reach steady and strong, along the white painted line. The dense greased air of the dullness of every day, glass and the long unwind of the drive alone. The sea lingers in the unlit streets, drawing down bricks and corpses. And still somewhere the question touches you. This blessing of the numbers. This awakening of the words.