At long last I am hidden from mystery, obscure to the arcane and the occult. No more bones and notions. No more rallies and retreats. A slew of words spilling out the window. A brace of ghosts rattling their chains. Line by line gathering moss as the picture lasts and lasts. I stumble and vie in plain sight, there on the face of things. I inherit a few simple pieces, all my habits always at hand. Every door and window wait, wide open.
The bare blue sky rings with crows and starlings. The wailing of the accidental car alarm, the distance always growling, motor and untethered bass. Here the old dog awaits death, all flummoxed and enfumed. Here the yellow cat take the leaning pine, swift footed and clever clawed. I close my eyes to look for lost dreams. I wear dark glasses to keep in the heat. The big pup bounds and dances, the little gladiator piercing lip and muzzle. Vague confoundments of kicked up dust hide the details and flatten the palette. It is enough to bow my head for the moment. It is enough to hold still as stillness clings to me.
It is pretense to claim some revelation. It is artifice that finds me skipping certain lines. As if I was ever far from the target. As if I was ever close to the crown. The careful shroud is torn away, while we busy our selves with watching the curtains. A tell only useful when no-one thinks to see. Each poem mostly just what it says, the whole thing never really finished. Each secret mostly the centerpiece of the table. The whole world feels a made-up puzzle, people all stuck in the same room, however far they wander. The vast and drafty universe as though you know a difference. Pointing at a map, always a location.