the ribbon and the road

The words wait, whether hue or tongue. The words swarm in, condense upon the objects, split up every sense. They fill in and gloss over. Each of them sad cavalcade and secret survivor. A sheepskin and a begging bowl. A ribbon and a road. A bin big enough for every secret. A djinn bound to be bidden.

It’s all been said, and it can never be said enough. The saying makes or breaks us, the way we whet our breath. The stars that have lit the first hard syllables still fixed in the transom of telling, long lonesome roads into reflection. The lies of the ancients that have lasted this long, to shape your mouth and set your heart to stumble and sprint. These stolen kisses and forbidden morsels. These mouthings and moans.

I speak them all, and think some more, and add your name to them. The long promenade, the omniscient gaze, the store of spells and enticements. This is where the long walk leaves me, limping through the wilderness, palming all that blooms and beckons. The weight of the play upon the players, but the words flying free. All these prayers and songs and poems trailing from root to roost. All the ways of saying so I can say your name and miss you.