By now you know the story, always a little sad, always a little the same. Something then about the sky, something about the spelling. An old romance, the spark and stumble. For some reason here are fireworks, never mind the season. For some reason it leaves you like a song, after pawing at your attentions. Always really that thing you mean I seem to be missing. The tradition of the open stance shaping every stanza.
Even so I was never one to get anywhere. The one seems the same as the other, the kaleidoscope of faction and philosophy never too vivid or shiny enough to hold my eye. I plod on and on, passed by hare and rat and snail. Every line like Achilles struggling with the infinite. I allude to evidence unseen, fact and faith the same in the absence of any proof. The words dissemble and rearrange, the same old crows before a storm. The same old sturm and drag, and still the road awaits.
If you stopped reading here, you'd be done by now. The point no more than punctuation. The wind in the sky and the longing of the star, a weary sort of wonder. No surprise but still a party. No discovery but still some time was killed. Nothing but this certain stillness. Nothing but the feel of promise brushing against your flesh. A whole lot of words scratching at some lost limb. Every arrival that forgets to satisfy. Still I drive it until the wheels come off. Still I tell it until every ear is gone.