The sky tumbles and the dawn arises, band after band stitched with star and dark. The crosshairs of the dream give way to the camouflage of the day. The way all our eyes are tuned by wishes, watching for the one we want. The way every story starts out telling the sort of story it will be. A bramble of clouds, a babe in the briar, the long times, the far away galaxies. Branches bend and the storm gathers. A dove cries and cries. These are our sky scrapers. These are our stadium shows.
The barter is in tense and skins. The trade-off made of the by and by and the blessed be for the work of spine and the weight of spade. You would be the dawn, save for the hours. You would be the fire, except there’s all that smoke. Want and want, hunger and hunger, we write our names upon these skies and trees. The din of music, the crush of bandwidth. Barking dogs and flitting finches. Our faces only give away their secrets in the mirror. Our hearts only ever lit by the moon.
It is something like a song, save all the notes catch up before the song is over. It is something like a story, only we are the ones who always end up told. It is the plan we can feel only once we move away. Fingers stumbling over keys, fingers fumbling with zippers, buttons, and clasps. All this hurry must mean something. There must be a reason for all this shove and rush. The next and the next one after. Always that sense of staring off towards some distance. Always that sense of knocking the next hit right out of the park.