crossroads

That I could sift these words from their shadows. That I could call the night by name. Every star set in that dense foundation, every wish long since spent. But the language slips away, leaving like so much smoke. It will end with a mouth full of ashes. It will end speaking of ancient fires.

I saw it in a crow, that transition between being and word. The wind shifted and the crow, perched atop a phone-pole, spread wide its wings and clasped hands with the wind. To rise or roll as needed. It slid down that mountain of air, only to soar up again, combing its feathers with the act of flight. It is an ordinary thing, the wind in the trees, the crow on the wing. Only the words seem wasted here.

My life takes place away from this page, but it is marked here, in memory and fabrication. My life is dense repetitions of futile acts, my speech a small cycle of ignored themes and snuffed passions. The words cling to the midnight sky and the baked pavement of noon, the rivers of steel and light. The words linger between lovers, savoring flesh and enmity. Midnight comes, and another deal is struck. The shadows part and we all leave as strangers.