This is the story once it is over. This is the play after the curtain call. All dust sleeve and ghost light. All punctuation and after party and the pages given up for blank. The dry aching hands of work yet unfinished. The resolute bitterness of a tongue stilled for good.
Life idles on. It sleeps in the cold and the dark. It bides the time and the weather, the gray pacing and the golden moments. It endures and adapts, always changing, always holding the course. It doesn't care for status or secrets. It doesn't know how unlikely it is that it continues to thrive.
And so I scatter these words like ashes. So I write these words in the condensation on the mirror. Dust and steam, ice and loam. A whole continuity seems to hedge its bets, eternity running circles around the sky. Castles made of sand, oceans of possibility breaking again and again. The story is over. Everything left is epilogue.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
simmer
The hours drag and drawl, the vision blurs and fades. The world is more at once, this flight of wing and flower, this litany of sudden silk ...
-
The season settles again on the unseasonable, my bones ring with the resonant chill, something’s always missing after a death. The hard shif...
-
So it is the scintillance of wind and leaf, abundant boughs swaying in the long last light as the sun sets off and the world falls away. So ...
-
There’s not much to do once the sinking sets in, once you feel the collapse throughout the collateral, the drag of the earth’s core gripping...
No comments:
Post a Comment