There goes that arrow, loosed into the depths of the sky. There goes that notion, set adrift out upon the flowing ice. Somehow the daft affect, the dull reflection of the motive leaving tracks in the action, the fabled grace only ever there under fire, all these tangled traces inspired only by their absence stretch the shadows along the tight skin of the day. Vision blurs, eyes burn, to everything a time and a place. Only here, lost in these abstractions, fatigued by the least flickering thought. Only here, ground down to nearly nothing.
Sleep comes and goes, always weary, never at rest. The clock keeps mouthing off, the days and nights twirling in flashing circles, spinning and spinning while the world tries to find its feet. The pillows fluffed and folded, creasing the flesh, dowsed in sweat and shallow dreams. Every task herculean, every effort sisyphean, all the ashes scattered and the graves overgrown with weeds. The stars come out to tell the time, so long ago and far away all this shine.
Sticks and stones and sales on consignment. Streets cluttered with infants and strays, gutters full of trash and spent wishes. The gristle in the knee, the gravel in the gut. It all goes from green to gray, from blue to black. The math does itself, numbers stumbling into place, the muscles weak and strained. Think back to the beginning of all these loose ends. Think back to the choice to have a chosen, back to the first of these crimes of blood and convenience. It all goes back farther than memory or history. It all goes back to that bow bent, string taut, the arrow waiting for the aim.