The houses have been abandoned to the banks. All the avenues are empty. The sun withholds its favors, then loses all control. The windswept light all at once surrenders its features, picking its colors from the depth of the spectrum. A mocking bird sings and reels, falling broadly from sky to pine. It comes along just so often, the weight of all wonder just so. It comes along like stolen kisses lingering just beneath the fever of this spill of life.
She is the the orange cat lazing in the green grape vines, she is a mouthful of peppermints. She always lingers into the thin air, lolls between tongue and tell. Just enough secrets to spark and blue, just enough simple to make that same mistake. The broken record bird call, the dogs a-doze in the sun. The high sad harmonies that always find you out of pocket. The dim deep songs she carries in her campfire dark descent.
Would I ever know enough of the map to find a road, could I ever find the lay of the land? Is there always this wide open empty, this gathering of sense in the wake of losing ground? These dull desperate gods of plagues and domination, this priesthood of confounded lies. The lost count or the knowing number. The yawning day and the brittle night. Always looking back at sins of omission from this constant waiting out the grave. Watching all these birds, wishing for bees.