At this moment the moon is gone, slid off the sky on bright blue rails. Shadows are long and touch toes with the objects they caress and entomb. There is a quiet reckoning, dirt and shovel, worm and bird. Things are put on their shelves, things are put in their places. The absences and contradictions are staggering.
Every thought gets stuck in flesh, dull ache and heady fever. All the slanders and accusations. All the missteps and retellings that live forever in the mind. Tears and fury, washed down with a little hunger and thirst. The words buried in the sleeping earth. The many days left to carry the weight of this fresh empty.
Time gets trapped in all these bloody sparkles, the chains we drag when trolling for ghosts. The grave we neglected to fill always open, even when filled with rock and dirt. All the spectators, all the witnesses, the jeering dead-eyed crowds that infect this small sad moment with their tin-eared repartee. The irreversible and the inevitable, the useless collar and the pointless bowl.
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