Enough with asking the night why. Enough with wishing for that faraway sky. The moth beats wings against the glass of the porch light burning shadows far into the yard. The owl shrieks so near and dead above. The cat it clambers and the dogs chase the dust. The star only speaks in distance. The heart only speaks of floods. Every breath reaching after the last. Every bit of bright claimed in singed synapse, thinking of your smile.
The bitten tongue still blunders on, clipped phrases and rapt catechism. The stunted work of this head always immersed in sand or fog. The fluent lack of blood calling this ghost. Some sweet song lingers, your voice carrying far into the dark of these apostle thoughts. The green longing, the gray traces. The skin ridden with itches. The sky only so many words away.
The brain brays on, unbidden. The language sliding down the walls, the language trailing web and unsated appetite, a spider always just missing the fly. Old music, weary thoughts, the musty years of slow riposte and quick defeat. Mirrors made of midnight windows, doors made of dirty glass. One thought diminishing any other. One thought claiming what's left of my life.
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