hammer

I wouldn't know an hour from any other change in the atmosphere. The ice drizzling its secrets over a fevered brow, goose flesh lit with-in the skin. The bridge ended without any resolution but the weight of steel and the distance to the sea. The stars arising high above, as moths take to the trees and the sky loses all its light. The clock blinking, as if it will never understand. Fingers wandering away from touch.

It is as if there could be instructions, wise books discovered by retracing familiar sayings, the breadth of expression measured with a sparkle and a shift. The mind wandering because their are questions, every thought expelled as if it were infection. So the instant dissolves to become manifest. So that itching on your shoulder is not just drift but drive. The best tools know the limits of their use.

I scrape my teeth against lip and tongue. There is at least the residuals of something I would say, that pantomime rife with wasted effort. My bones shift and crack, misplaced and dully settled upon an outcome. Time goes on, even if I miss it. Time goes by, even if I keep it in a drawer. To have watched those wings reach, unbidden, gliding on the release of some small hurt. Memory for memory, every glimpse of light a reason. To have seen the world rise, and all the work change. Every revelation stronger than iron, every notion touched lit with the need nails exude. Fingers always reaching for the borders of feeling.