Friday, April 8, 2011

hyperopic

The sky boils over and the windows weep blue light. The hushed still seeps in under the door. Every breath that fresh anticipation, that sudden stirring, that first kiss thrill. So close this clarity, so near this remark of sheen and bone that every ache seems laden with vision. Each swallow another proof of life on earth.


My joints crackle with gravel and my spine is a string of stones. I am scuffed and scraped, recently razored and long ago let go stray. My scars now grow more slowly, the stitching, stinging wounds fierce reminders of that most ancient war, the abatement of willing flesh. This whispering blood singing that first song of breath and fire. These ringing ears hearing music everywhere.


There is a lost star I follow, a faith bent from ancient light. The cold of a dark camp, the comfort of a lingering fire. The tracks that gossip, the trails that lead into the deeper night. It is the faith of the stranger, the way of the old wanderer. Hunger and thirst and the extinction of satiation. These sharp corners, these winding roads.

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