fissure and fire

It is always right along the border, it always stalks the jagged edge. The moment broken off at the stitched on seconds. The day that won't come, the night that won't end. The stars all lost so long ago. The nightmare all the worse for each waking. The dream like fevers beaded on my brow, the yaw of ache, the pitch of blood. The hunt running outside the front door. It comes in heat, it comes in reasons. The dull abyss of this sudden never more.

The dawn might come if it had a reason. The sun might rise if it was asked just so. The roof hangs its head and watches the earth. Life all writhes between each mention. The world is swarms and hives and extinctions. It is steam and scars and fissure and fire. The heart steps out to take the air, beating its feet red against the floorboards. My eyes rub raw, just taking the measure of it all.

This is the hour of the last enchantment. This is the hole that never heals. Sleep is a spell from a once-was kingdom. The kindness ringing as the swiftest cut, a storm of bells, a riot of bones. The stars show their teeth to some former notion. The self as a certainty, the name as an oath. Never again the only true anthem. The empty air a tide arrows. Every step slips uncertain, every second the gears ground down. The work all passes to better heads and stronger hands. All else left watching the clock wear out.