Are those the lights of distant fire, burning somewhere between hill and cloud, driving pinholes through the night? Are those the bounds of distant constellations, shine written in point and line, stories spread like breadcrumbs across the void of heaven? Rhyme spoken and rhyme spat, breath given up to the slipped insistence of the road of choice. Those glittering eyes fixed upon some shabby stranger, life passing between the hubris of scattered home and town. The night open and bleeding out all over.
I did not ever carry the flame, only preserved the fire now and again. The clockwork never spoke to me, and my eyes never could see the green. I tend the embers, stir the ashes, as I am flailed by soot and smoke. The wind shivers through the tall pines, these towers of reach and longing swaying in the starlight. I gather the wood and draw the water. I live only through these blood-oaths and origin sins. Hand-outs and left-overs. The sky is silent and lousy with stars.
I ask without questions, want without an end. The rigid press of hope passes through me, another hungry ghost wailing on the highway. I pass these fields and forts, attended only by mutts and strays. The gutters hush and the leaves stall before they all skitter and dance. An owl slides by between tree and sky, the street coursing with wind and shadow. The day awaits us, in all its grace and fury. I watch my step and limp along. Somewhere between these acts and words, the day awaits.