I can't name the constellations huddled above the house. I can't call down the storm clouds when the weather is a mess. I sift through the wreckage of thought and image, rolling the pieces in whatever words are loose. I stitch together some story that even I know isn't true, satisfied with the words that stick. I bind the song to its stays, and make up all the rest. It is a marker, and it is a measure, and the distance proves itself all over.
Come plaintive arrangement, come lolling saxophone. The heat spills unhinged across the landscape, melting into the crumbling architecture. The scenery lingers a little too long, the dialogue all trails towards dust. The story pools and seeps. All your spells and recipes bared all line and light. All your campaign promises, all your starry nights teeth loosed from a bleeding smile. The made up god blesses and the made up muses all rejoice. The story only rocks stacked beside the road.
I can't sort out all your secrets. I can't read the drift from the lightning in your eyes. I work through all the forensic evidence, I trust the figures in the proof. It isn't so much the thing believed but the belief itself I need, a rumor or a reason. A star to hang my wishes on, a trail of sparks to feel out the fire. That flash of eye, that smoke split flint that smolders in your smile. There you are, and all the rest is roads.