tourist

It is in the last daylight gleaned from pine needles. It is in the wings unfolded against the warm wind, three crows embracing the west. Shouts and squeals from errant children pursuing their quests of noise and play, hanging like embers in the air. It is that sheen of sweat glistening in the sunshine, the sound of paws treading dust. The sky falls down, the day dies in denial, the night awaiting the typical trysts and uproar. The world waxes and wanes, all rush and faces, all bust and burn. The mystery doesn't bother with reasons.

From the gleaming dawn to the rusted dusk, I am at a loss. Things move, too slowly or too quickly. I go from the surety of dreaming to the labored plottings of life, from restless sleep to sluggish alert with little alteration of affect. I trade wound for weakness, mistake for theft. Clotted breath and rapt perspiration, stammered speech and staggered rhythm. Not so much witness as by-stander. Not so much traveler, but at best a tourist in the gear-work of the world.

Gray thoughts flecked with sentiment, spackled with the grave and the libidinous, I work at forging this forgetting. The landmarks of her lingering gaze, the brickworks of her labyrinthine mind. The words she would spit and sunder, her provocations only half in jest. I embrace the distance, the indistinct clamor of bone and breed. From hawk to owl, from crow to swift, from blue to black I stumble. I read every sign on the corner, I read every track in the sky. I speak a few words aloud, to myself as if to another. I speak a few words aloud, letting them leave at last.