the misremembered

The moon is coming, but it isn’t here yet. There’s always a lot of inking in to do. The flesh is there but the mind is slippery. It’s best to take it with a grain or two. I allow for the inevitable, but I work off of landmarks and the ways of the stars. The map is in the making, the moment in the all, when you’re there there’s no telling where you are. The moon isn’t here yet, but she’ll make it by and by.

Every memory is an edit. Every remembrance a rewrite. It’s a structural problem, this abstraction pressed into flesh. The river busy at every bend, the tide nothing but discord and complaint. Those clips from kiss to absence, the report of every touch. The persuasion of cant and cadence, the stone smoothed by the insistence of each return, water on water with the certainty of stone. The burning bloom only old and alone. 

There are litanies of sparks and stars. The way the moon’s aura glowed around the crowns and roofs. The fire streaked sky above the car camp lake, peals of laughter and the sounds of reckless glass. The way the rumors lit the firmament, the terrible relentless presence of the thinker in each thought, the primal night full of witnesses and reckonings. The music as the score makes you smile. The piano when your fingers fully wake. In your skin, the motor mouthed geese headed south and west, the traffic and each breath. The window you always leave open, your belly as the moon arrives.