If only I could settle for the signs. Six swallows knotted in pirouettes rise and fall as the sun breaks character, I think of Hamlet but skip the yipyap. A little sunburnt, a little played out, a wasp nest in my car. Smoke coils and strays, taking up with the wind and its upstart agenda. Huddled beneath the eaves of dusk and the lullaby blue sky, I feel the looming heel of night. I should smoke and stare straight into the twilight’s gravitas, but I look to the west instead. All is lost, the dance of absence, this leaning darkness. The weighted faith of flesh and hunger, this too too you know the kilted screw unto I replay like imagined repartee. All the sayings left unsaid.
The horizon scaling the silhouetted hills of oak and scrub with ornate radiance, lovely colors that I probably can’t see gently pulling the shadows over roof and tree. Smoke swirling before my eyes as the night brings the boot down. Stuck in fisticuffs with the worst of the unfed fallen, waiting for a backup from those oft mentioned better natured ones that never show. Throwing hands and elbows, leaning into the lowing throat of mad eyed stars peering into existence. Apart from car horns and my own charging heart, this is the witness I barter. The longed for long lost and the portal of breath.
It’s always close to some joke or story, the daily bump into. Sometimes it well oh well, sometimes its hard upon the eyes. Aging with the last light leaving, some feeling like singing, and a sinking deep within. The unbreakable spells you cast on yourself by wanting one. The night with all its dogs and cars. The last dregs of the cooling coffee, the chunk of the steel cup empty. Words that no longer work, a kiss that never was. Something like the evenings keening, something like a blur of birds. I sit with some light on somewhere, smoking what I got.
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