The sundown squeezes out more shadows, burning all that’s left. It comes down to dust and swarms, the spaces between the fence boards painted at my feet. The longing dwindles though the grasping never ends. That caracole of flesh subsists between this shine and burn. The tragedies and treasure maps that bear witness to all that touch has wrought. These sweet seals and bitter limits, the face lined with worries and flecked with doubt.
We all survive a little wounding, we’re none too fresh out of the box. The dreams that always linger just beyond tomorrow, the tales told on us by the way our shoulders bow. The jagged glass, the smug retort. The scars from where we touched too hard, the punctuation at the tail end of calamity. We sing and weep and limp along. Every smile so creased and cut.
It’s another sky owed to some storm unbirthed, a color cast towards a calling far removes. The sun still lingers upon another day I squandered, sitting by a scrub pine, squinting on my left. The air rings out with a growling lawn mower and a speeding car. The trees all sing with birds. Some radio calls down the end of the world, doomsday the only holiday we celebrate the same. Something I said still clings to the meat. Something nearly remembered, almost a measure of the loss.
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