lives of the saints

The spider in my mind waits, silently keeping time, weaving its way towards the fleeting words. Each capture a closing of questions, the exacting edge of appetite. Each notion a new enclosure, each culture bordered between certainties, the sticky silk of just like this drawing down the world. It weaves and gathers, aligning every participating star. Scheming towards a hunger so vast it is a tide. The thoughts roil and rollick, waiting to seem like something to say.

This is the way we dress the world up in our ghosts and shed skins. We adorn each thing with these feathers and relics, calling down the heavens, securing the intercession of the saints. We call on hearts and storms, we cleave each urge with the most noble of golden motives, clothing the shadows in our favorite hues. The ancient pulse of light that wanders at the speed of want mistaken for the things we want to see. The ancient tones and trembles waiting for the wish to catch up.

You serve until the sentence is over, I linger long enough to check the spell. Knowing that the shadows hold you in trust, the words finding you as they must. Awake in some shade of fickle attention, not feeling the press in you flesh, not a kindling more enflamed. The empty craft of hidden kisses, placed in the speaking ease of tongue and lip. That omen of knowing when the whisper leaves your mouth, those notions of ghosts and givens are all roads in the blind night. Reading these gentle spinnings a lovely incantation, each line another touching, some small faith in skilled fingers. A longing for this lasting grasp.