The even-handed air leaves its blessings in the blood, life burning slow and fierce. The sky settles in a holding pattern, moment by moment all the maps salted with such distant stars. Hard pavement talking to each little bone in my feet, some meeting of the minds of matter. This could be the last breath I ever spill, and that would be a fine thing. I close my eyes and wait for the brilliance of this seeming to fade. I close my eyes, wishing that this was but a dream.
An owl weaves slow circles from the clock-face of the grimacing moon, telling time its reasons. Feast and fallow, these slivers of exquisite bounty are the inversion of so much ache. The hunger of these wings, the shamelessness of this luck. Lingering so long that even the asking is out of order. Being so pure that all else is amendments and credos. Words left to the abandonment of each act.
It leaves slow, vapor trails and dewy steam. The burgeoning labors of matter always in transition, the poison spilled from lung and blood. Always a melting, always a dissolving-- so much of this is only process. Like the wish doused candles or the wanton dispersal of dandelion seeds, this identity is mostly myth and breath. Some aim taken, some wager made. This world, and nothing more.
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