the drifts you get

 The clock comes on hard all at once, the inevitable chipping away drip drip dropping through the day, another hour due. The flagrant waste as the wheel kept spinning. The martinet of the moment hissying up a fit, clearing his throat and tapping on his wrist. The clock calling out for another round of usual suspects. The words stand, dull on the line up. Bored to tears as they hold their places, enough in the know to give nothing away.

The words come walking off the line up, every one of them free to go. The words go home with who they please. Both Babel and diaspora, Lot and salt. Every one of them a criminal, however they wear their capes. The collusion of the drifts you get. The wanton loss of motive.

Sitting here I’m really a bunch of wishes about kisses, and the things that go my way. The led glow and the ubiquitous sounds and aches. These fervent feelings somewhere deep down the language and made to fit the tongue. The press between the ghost and the signal, the glimmer and the gist. These words that find their purchase in my turn. This place, dissolved in your sentience. A longing long gone on.