Wednesday, March 9, 2011


It's an arms race scenario, the weather gone missing, spring just around the corner. The hours all add up, the accumulation of word problems. The sickness becomes embedded and the poison trickles thicker into every dream. This is where you wake, a few words past winter. This is where you are, with rain upon your breath.

The shadows stick and the clock keeps ticking. Someone is responsible for keeping things of track. The cylinder spins without a wish for an empty chamber. The hammer falls, never casting smoke and peace. Another night bleeding out the doors and windows. Another night spilling from the mirror.

Whatever is hidden, I will not find it. Whatever is in there, just keep it to yourself. That dull arithmetic of space and spells and letters. The secret code kept sequestered in the spiral prison again and again. There is something in the air, a drift of wings, a smile of a moon. There is something in the air, a storm left unwinding in the sky. Whisper to me, before sleep assails you. I will save your place while the reasons in your blood abandon you to this sharp border of the night.

No comments:

Post a Comment