Thursday, September 8, 2011

the moth in the pine

Another love letter, and I am nowhere to be seen. Even the moon arrives before me. Always the shuffling in the dust, forever that mistaken constellation. You are the measure between the limits of the mirror and that relentless escape of light. You are the crossroads of this wishing and all lingering proof. You are my thoughts caught in slow nightfall. I sit still, another inscription written in ice, awash in the moth light moon.

There is no secret to me. These words I trail like breadcrumbs, like the endless entangling of summer growth or winter beards. I cast them intending your steady breath, cast like the salt of your lips. The whole portion plated, that compliance of sensation and belief blowing smoke and shedding spark. Love another name we give to reckless limit. The dreamer lost in that power of the dreamings end.

The tongue always trails the plodding of time. All these stories buried in the slow frames of waterway and mountaintop. These words that heel after the numbered of the hunt. If there was a heaven, it endures in your gaze. If there is tomorrow it is clasped in the smoldering of your blood. That travelers' wisdom to know that there are many strangers fated to your road. You are the path of correlation and all my longing, the breath of the moon upon bare flesh. That whisper of the moth in the pine.

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