It isn't only the light that loses me, sticking to these corners, playing the right peg. Shadows congeal into shade and ether, the weight of a color, the press of light. The cookie-cutter ideologue whispers to the airwaves, the rhythm of schoolyard secrets growing into that tell-tale march, boots on the backstairs, shots ringing in the night. Each hue huddles at once, cheek to cheek dancing with the dusk. I pause and I clear my throat, as if I had something to say.
Dogs bark and traffic rumbles, the sound of a slow throttle rattling off the glass. The hour has the ease of puzzle pieces, each shape fit to find another picture. I allude to the angles, chant all my false positives while idling towards the west. This resolve that dissolves with a glass of water. This obstruction measured as a piece of pie. It seems as likely as any answer. As probable as the next prayer.
The sun sinks bright, pushing all its shadows through me. The light leans low, making markers from fresh blinded eyes. The children vote for one last racket, a stippled din left to fend against the reaching night. Paws scuff and wings scatter, a wind falls along all the right ideas, aligning the binds of belief. I knew that it was there for the saying. I knew there was a witness to vouch for every lie. What happens next just argument and evidence. What happens next waiting to be seen.