There isn't any point. The sun makes the skin into tatters, the day turns the bones into brick. The river overflows or turns to muck, the cat in the box either lives or dies, kisses will complete or deceive me-- it isn't in me to choose. There is a tempo to the traffic, there is a sway to each lane. That I make it home at all is proof enough.
My hands are stiff, dry as a jar of moon light, hot as a summer beach. They tap and curl, past the sleepless edge twice already. The curl of a lip, the fur on the low end of a voice. Too precious, too pretty, too much to want. These hands of odd jobs and little tricks. These hands full of the next mistelling, the last mistake.
I stay a stranger. Ribbons of steel, closets of lamps. Board games and a scrawled prescription, always landing on somethings got to give. My share has been lent against long past dissolution. I awake and I am speaking from the land where ghosts are born. All of my intimates keep their distance, and I miss every call I should have answered. I lost the trail in the tangle of hours. Like I was there so long ago I never was there at all.
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