Sunday, April 10, 2011

room

I don't care to see the stars, diamond dust or match struck sparks. I don't care to watch the light fold away for the night. I don't want the wind on my skin or my feet on the ground, the words and the way nothing but another to do list. I won't see a thing, won't leave a mark or check off a box. I will drink my coffee. I will keep my piece.

It is a feature that language leaves us with, this bend of meaning, this connecting of dots. Metaphor and simile shifting the shapes of things while we think, folding these forms upon tooth and tongue. We make these claims of kinship, these leaps across the distances, these leanings into the void. The imagination illuminates and it obscures, telling truth and lie in one steady breath. The magic is always among our numbers. The mystery always knows us by our names.

You can keep your secrets. You can bide your time. The days take wing only to hang in plain sight, weary flocks weighing down the line. You can count them whether they count or not. You can matter and never know, though when in doubt, bet on the math that is the most humbling. I miss so much because I am a little broken. I always watch the sky starting from the ground up. There are always departures and arrivals. There is always more room for tragic error. There is always room for another.

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