Speech becomes the only remorse, a life given to pursuit of heat. The breath an easement to something best never mentioned. The dessert left in the rubble of earnest work, just the phrasing given to light and skin. A kiss in form left to fortune.
We are swept with innocence, forgetting the only eminence we allow. The breech is just abridgment, the punch-line tendered without the joke. Such a flush memento, such a worrying hand. Fingertips leaning out into the highway air, driving through the night. The idle memorization, the rote road-work of fingers streaming like the Leonids. The least regret falling in lines like stars.
The words are first across the borders. The bold whisperings, the salt slowing turning the fields. The last plow blooming red with rust. The brave earth finding every single stone. The deep waters a whole world away. The heart works and works, each motive a morsel. Each beat another settled bet.
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