There is a moon out there somewhere. The wind is all rush and crawl. Gutters skitter with dead brown leaves. There are lights on in somebody's home. The skull splits, the night seethes. Every pin drops unheard. The whole day lost to the falling sky. The last good moment the sight of all the crows moving above, the season crumpled down below.
The air is piled into little boxes. Electric light paints the walls with tricks and shades. Breath draws and pushes, stirring the thin suspension. Dust and gloom and the bitterness of life entombed. The clock calls out its silent taunts and revisions, time pretending to doze in the glass. Each hour arrives with its lamentations. Each room drowns in these floods of regret.
The television just keeps talking. The captions read aloud like prophecy. These lovely dreams and painted on faces. These false figures bathed in unnatural light. Papers full of lists and reasons pile high and gather dust. Beneath each step the change of seasons tunes the skies to lost networks. Every ache and tear glisten silver, blurry eyes and salted flesh. The world away, just spinning and spinning. Life set on replay, knotted constellations and every star alone.
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