porous

The sun won't stay, and I can't call it back. The night won't still, and I can't keep up. The smoke unfurled from distant fires, the speed of the tire multiplied outward from the hub, the spattered windshield cracked all of the sudden. From gravel in action to the plaintive note from a passing train, it all goes on and on. I steady myself in the doorway. I ease myself down step by step. Wonders truly never cease.

The light isn't any good for reading, and the room is too hot for finding any sleep. The dog dozes just outside the doorway, painted with a single stripe of light. The cat in the closet is all thistle and growl. My feet ache, bare on the worn out floor. My shoes air, settling with the spiders on the porch. The leaves are falling, the lawn is dying, I never seem to finish with these lists of failings. Bones crackle, a different kindling, awaiting some other kind of fire.

Pretty is for people while beauty stalks the earth. It is bright and ragged, sharp and swift. It is a feeling that wanders while all the mirrors run dry. It is a knowing that drops angels from flight like cutlery clattering to the floor. The world and its hordes and swarms, designed by mystery or by chance. Working at these puzzles, lapping at these ruins. Such a sweet tooth for cinders, such a drizzling of sweat. I lean into this long weary, stunned by this careless beauty that is always just out of reach.