What little is left I give to the sky, slowly flowing from blue to black. What portion abides I offer the day, just as the night encroaches. I skip the details and submerge into the drift. Ants clambering towards the sunlight, fence to vine to peach to pine. Birds embracing the sky, enduring their return to the earth.
If this is beauty, it is the very measure. If this is truth, it is the certain word. You touch at such a great distance. We feel so faraway, pressed against these tethered depths. You teach that chestnut of all things ending, that limit is the one unbound power loosed. You are the turn in the phrase, the split in the road. You are the reach of our knowing abiding loss.
Tell me again to favor the spark. Tell me again to shed this flesh. This sea of ache and rot and woe abandoned to an eternity of love and ghosts. The confluence of the moment and the meat, all philosophy grown entirely from suffering and soil. The tongue pauses between all this dull wonder. The words that thread between these breaths always a little exhausted. The prayers that left us burning brightly into dusk.
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