sublimate

The dispatch barely happens, the days are strapped, the words loom in their dull husks. The dismal climb down into. The moment, the mood, the object, the being. This feint toward explanation while slipping incantations between algorithms, the blood always claiming its ways. The words that pause for a minute to meet your gaze before pressing themselves through your chest. They say, and you ring out bones to appetites. They linger, and it is so written.

The case by case accumulation, our daily breads and so we saids, the magic we have to spell out. They are letters in the margins. They are the marbling of the meat. You breathe and stretch and bow your body to its resonant surrender, the rationing of pleasure until you sing its praises. The letters it would have you write, the reckless procession of your need. The covenants you would pursue, wagering your every sin.

This is for the shape of your speech against the air. This is for the way you mouth the names. Your epitaph read aloud, the cards turned and stars fallen. A necklace of prayers to distract from affliction, a sip from the chalice to imbue this kiss, the spill of will and the fall into want. A spell whispered and the entity embraced. The ringing of the vessel, your skin covered with the night.