There is nothing to see here. The blues that abide ride the winds and spill into the west. The crows gliding to their roost, the scrub jay drinking from a rain gutter on the roof next door. The confusion of clouds and stars as the sun settles its tab and the night stands up on its hind legs, ready to run. Sleep slipped out with the strays and the lights. Everything is the color of wet pavement. Everything is only painted on.
There is nothing to say now. Words swarm, schooling in tides of circles, every snake out to swallow its tail. Bitter coffee and sullen steel press like a silencing finger against my lips. This is it for the kiss, this is the postscript to the prelude, the epilogue for an epitaph. Even once everything is over, it isn't done. Write out the length and breadth of your life, the words dissolve like breath. Just a flavor lingering between tooth and tongue. Just a sentiment mistaken for a spice.
What else is there to do? Things that were left out are all put away. The dogs have been walked and the house has been battened down for the night. The clock tells stories that the heart wants to hear. The heart tells stories fit for neither beast or bird. No depths, no wonders. Flesh and bone and blood, keeping the lights on for the ghost. All the books and boxes, all the corners and cravings. All set sail in this cunning stillness. Catch a wind or the drift.