I draw the fire down until my fingertips are scorched, blowing the last of its smoke into the wake of the fitful winds, piddling away with the dust. Bad habits both wear and are worn, hanging out to dry with the rest of this mess. I cough and tamp down the last ember into ash. I cling to the essence of the air, still and dense and somehow always empty and always overfull. I am tatters and greasy rags, painted onto a screen of dust and gauzy sunlight. I am in a moment of an era of thirst and friction. Even my kisses are covered in dirt.
And so our days turn to deserts. And so our dreams flicker as the oases that spring from the mirage laden depths. Every breath a kindling spark, our hearts so full of straw and hope. Every word so thick and solemn it cannot help but seem a joke. Whole speeches set sail, so full of simple folk and bright untarnished tomorrows. Whole sagas sink out here, where the world and earth meet at the crossroads and rochambeau. One always turning, spun against the other. And so arrive our clear cruel nights.
The poems all spill, the stories ramble. The old ones always coming around again, full of bones and names and the flavor of stars and campfires. So many told and telling, is it a wonder to get stuck on just one? The birds in the air, the beasts of the fields, all our pitiable burdens. All our secrets tattooed on our tongues and fingers. All our slaughters lingering on our lips. The blood sings of brother and mother and sisters and brides. The earth cluttered with our burned down fathers and built up lies. One prayer no better than another, out here where no one listens. One feast ends to deny some further appetite. We turn one way or the other, the sky sputtering away in fits. One word the same as another when the wager won't change.