There is that fine moment, if the luck holds, if the repairs are solely cosmetic. That moment when having finally nothing left to say, you realize that no is listening anyway. And that fog that you watched roll in with that bleary Saturday dusk was indeed a house burning down. The smell of pine tar that arose so suddenly walking the dog down the dark wet street was just green bin after green bin clotted with Christmas trees. That the scraped up shoe leather in the gutter was is fact a dead and desiccated rat. Victory isn't there, not just yet. But some ending is at least in sight.
The pale bones of a winter poplar stand still, exposed to the flayings of electric light. Standing in unthinkable slumber, a pause fed by that inkling living needs of death. Seeds found in archeological digs that bloom thousands of years later, mysteries trapped in tar and amber reading us the riot act from their staged and messy exits. That winter tree, bare and reaching into the long chill night, dreaming of the pagan tides of spring. Incandescence trapped in glass, thoughts drawn from invisible into feasible ink. The statuary of Pompeii pressed bitterly against the flow of glass.
That moment when you sober to the fact that the drink was not deep enough. Waking to the shape of the phrases you spit in fury, the promises you made in the depths of love. The vivid wishes that you bent the very course of your life against. The absence that makes so fearsome and dire the kiss of the real. The everyday gifts of dogs howling and babies crying, the gentle and the uncivilized prize. Hands so subtle that they do their work without you, or are you while the illusion of you flickers and fumes. The stretch of every keystroke, words strung together like berries hung for birds. The choice is simply knowing that there is an appetite for everything, given enough time. Raccoons raiding the trash, crows crowning every fresh dawn.
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