Give away that crowd of stars, give up this pile of wonder. The gathered stones won't give away the grave. The thought slow going, patches of drought flowers. The parched throat left over from the dusk. Wear away tour heels on the bones of the dreams that drowned you. Render a feather, thether down the lightning strike. Worry away that last morsel of the night.
The day resided still and calm, covered in dollops
of melted light. Grave still and grave sure, the day is painted on the
glass. It holds the shape until the last of the light is drained away,
dusk along so quick the sun hardly has a say. Nightfall arrives like a
cat, down the fence and up a tree. Bones ache and flesh trembles, a lone
dog barking out his frustrations takes on another color when the
nightfall comes to call.
This is the story of the poem
unwritten. This is the story of the story never told. The night and day
swap outfits, feelings running wild and hard. The heart at last so
breathless, the mind so far still lost. Only things and the skins of
things. Dark thoughts and bad omens, trip over the shoe string, catch
your toe on the rug. The sky drops these feasts of lights and longing,
the flattened out constellations, the cycle of hiding and finding the
moon. The shadows push out their limbs and roots, thinking in deep
absences and stark limits. The window turns to blackened glass and the
shadows crawl and plot. Give up that last sliver of hope, let your heart
feed the night.