There is a distant prayer of crickets, a grace just cracked in ice. The last glimpse had of that wanton moon, the first word said in vain. The yapping of the window dogs riffles off the houses, stilt-walks through these rivers of light. You awake at once, remembering no dream. Just one thing certain forever to elude.
The whole clamber of your body mutters, the give and take of nature films or movie chimps. A yawn grown from forgotten slights to the spine. A breath secured by allowing yourself that ease where all breathing is held in suspense. The secret machines and first strike industries buried beneath the skin of the waking world. The joy and dread of all that is possible.
So go the sandwich boards. That apocalyptic picket, that doomsday prophet of cartoon ink. I cut my missives from ransom note newspapers. My speech is as clipped as wings. What I saw I could never recapture. What I foreswore I could never escape. So I preach to the growing silence. I preach to the moon in the sea.
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