The clotted feel of the sky is lifted at once, the sun goes out and everything is lit again. The pitch of the horizon line, the submerged clarity of the sky left above the sun. My blunted eyes see better at dusk, the change of palette favoring my limits, which I continue to accrue even as my abilities diminish. The day is in the details, the night knits from remainders. The continuity comes from the lingering indistinctions.
The day to come will bleed into the day just lost. Night nodding against the spheres in their orbits, the machinery grinds on. The shadows drain and deepen, the clockwork enmeshed in this cold stone and dizzy flesh. I follow the trails gouged by heel and hoof, the rails driven by ice and water. I follow the path of smoke and steam. I wear each skin I shed, I wear the mantle of a name filled with empty air.
Sweat beads and words flee, the room always so warm and vacant. I follow my fingers along these trails of keystrokes, picking letters by proximity. Every sentence finished ends feeling served. All meaning left is nestled in the margins. All the moments noticed bled and dried. Night and day, hollowed of their Porter phrasings. Night and day words left out to dry on the line.