It is the sort of sky that just longs to be unsettled. It is that part of heaven where no-one wants to look. All blush and ever leaning, the smallest hint of sugar dusted on the tongue. That hush that makes it seem as if something will be said. That moment that moves like water, spilling over the end of the world.
We measure it in pieces, the burnt flesh of sacrament, the burnt sugar of the poem. The eyes that find us, the hands that fail. The world goes dark, all bliss and intonation. The light goes low, hinting of that rapturous lust. Paint me a picture, sing me a song. Let the story take it out to sea. The word upon the water, the wing upon the wind. The tongue flicks against the lips. Anything could happen lost among the stars.
It's all good, then it's gone. Everything is peachy, then it's pie. Come cliff or seaside, the road goes on and on. Sword or pen or plowshare, the snake will never die. Every dog has its day, every worm has its turn. Wonders do not cease. It is the words that wear thin. All this talk runs down. Let the sky divide its bounty. Let the world carry its share. Amid these stars and silences be taken by this grace. Out here past the reasons tend to the fires that must be.
No comments:
Post a Comment