The train wails, and something arrives as it passes. The old ways awake, drawn to the sharp peal of feeling, the placeholder pull of that plaintive cry enough to call out even the doziest of unencumbered appetites. The rails another accelerant, an accumulation of atoms and intent strewn about the long suffering globe, these inadvertent antennae speaking in dialects that gods and ghosts believe belong to them so concrete is the extruded expression. Made up minds making up for lost time, dragging thunder through the cold mountains and haunted hills.
We are recorded in our lapses and our capacities, the deep ache stamped upon our architecture, a resonance of the distant of our reach. We bleed and spit and devour trailing stain and bone, inducing gravity and scattering our myths across the scenery. The clenched ember, the cold read, matter muttering through palms and fingers. We plead case and cite precedent, knowing how hard we argued out the paint the joinery. Oh to want long past the feeling and the flesh, one hand blind to its opposite. Oh to dream in brick and mortar, in the press of living breath.
This is the napkin note, the envelope sketch. The words meant somehow to resurrect a moment or invoke a notion, the day gone dark as each hunger casts its shadow. A sign left behind like the broken dove savaged by the Cooper’s Hawk, cast down to be consumed by the earth. Every day the stretch of never, the uphill stone. A place spelled just so in the weight of a sentence, a drop of ink into the restless sea. Hands there to fill out pockets, motive put in motion by the sustain of the whistle and the clamor of the tracks, a separate mark to hold each measure.