The sun was out, and it was warm for awhile, then it went away. Days are such temporary notions, here one moment then the next they have flown away, leaving the bare line and darkened sky. Everything is crawling on relentlessly, even the bits that stay the same. The bright light, the broken branch, the spider on my leg. The night is here, leaning against the doorframe. The night is here, trying to catch my eye.
What use is a night when all there is is sleeping left? What use is tomorrow when it is only today played in a different key? I try to find the words, but they have burrowed into shelves full of poems and dictionaries. I try to find the words, but for once even my big mouth stays shut. Just a rusted hammer of a man, hanging from some nails. Just a broken bottle of a man, past useful but still dangerous in poorly lit places. All these dull answers, and not a soul left asking.
The moon in the tree a Van Gogh tangle, all silhouette and radiance laid on thick to the eye. The drizzled dreams best left unmentioned, the pretty thoughts barbed in my troubled mind. The chill in the air the nearest thing to a caress I have felt in ages, those absent kisses and kindling romances. The stars in the sky just so many markers, signs to traveler and the very still alike. The night and its stories, the day and its wings.
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