It is that least pressure, a flicker in the eye-lid, a cloudiness in the situation on the ground, leading to this vast remembering. The press of fingertips weighing on your lips. It is that pallid language, all steam and sigh here upon the precipice of all conceit. Following the leaf and litter, the wet foot prints and the startling appetites of snails. That clear recognition of these weary links between the warm blood and the frozen ghost.
Speaking now out of turn, nearing another day lost, I watch the clock and shed all grace. These words of want and binding, fresh upon your breath, spoken and so the opposite of what was thought and meant. These poems of itch and bite, the broken skin and the writhing of the night. I forgot the path I aimed for, and lost myself finding my way. It seems that now you have left a light on, your porch amid all mysteries of forest, sea and fog. I reach out like any other bug or beast, willing a reason to abide your shine.
I am thirsty and I am tired. Again I have squandered the luxury of time. I have burnished something just saying it wasn't so. The sheer weight of this exhausted stare, watching all the glamor give out. Another dazzling day shorn of wonder and thick with wings, a sky gray with spattering rain. Sleep feels like a prayer anxious for an answer. Sleep feels like a story held too tight, its limbs held with raw intent. My fingers tapping plastic, trying to find the will.