The skin of the day is nicked just so, peeled off all at once to reveal the glisten of the meat. Light dribbles down and pools just so, on this, the beginning of everything that's left. They always say their mouthful. They always speak their peace while the grease from the feast still shines upon their chins. The day always so ready for the skillet, the day just hanging from the vine. All the words swarm that exposed flesh, flitting from blood to blood, every appetite fed letters. Every hunger a sound sunk in symbols, waiting for the feast.
The blue of the sky spills in broad swaths and sullen oaths, bright and gliding above the trees. Birds float and insects flicker, the giddy torrent of fall and fly all that heaven will allow. Wings upon the wind, the light singing through each skin. The measure of the vast distance between touch and reach, our written kisses, our spoken grips. The shadows ring and peal, seeping from each limb, pouring from the stretch of every tree. It is the lighting bright enough to illuminate what it incinerates. It is the revelation that consumes the sway.
All the air rolls and scatters about you. All the stars shed their stray points and signs. The calculated laugh, the fretful smile, the scent of warm skin and dryer sheets. The ache that comes from such unrelenting reach. The slow labors of silk and cotton. The plain facts as they press and sigh. We cling to the kingdom of stumps and stones. The dreams entangled never the dreams we share, the lowing from the far fields and that beckon built from low hanging fruit. Hold tight as these arms will tremble. Dream on though it will all be abandoned once we wake.