A day spent languid in masked traffic, I lean against the west side of the afternoon, smoking to lawnmowers and reckless senses. The trees wave green in the sun’s long encore and the busywork of the wind, this same old day in deep descent as the world slips past in untied breaths. The smoke dives for the eaves and is caught upon a gust. These things happen, as well as many others.
There’s a puppy on the calendar, there’s a spider on the wall. You try to keep these things contained. The hubristic rises, the deep dives down, the marked off days and the graven awakenings. The dwindling of the pleasures, the conspiracy of the assembled aches— all these walls and windows, all these alcoves and points of egress gather in my spine and shoulders, aching from hip to heart. These freed demons and licensed sobriquets that fill up my devil’s workshop in these ill spent days. I take a long shower, watching the water spill off my husk and riot down the drain.
It’s all hell and habits, silly rabbits. It’s all stones to the sea. Unsustainable objections and stumbling in the dark, the corn on the stalks and the grape on the vine, all this turning and turning in the rich blind earth. I sit here alone, animal and archetype, entity and organism in this confounded drag of want and bloom. The bright and the beauty long faded, the fix of the affection long passed, the brittle bulb casts a strange light. The weighted words another flung bouquet left to litter the floor.
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