One by one the stars are put away, slid into some other nighttime’s sky. The day arrives, unbidden and far too early, rattling the doorknobs and savaging the blinds. Soon there might be stories, some proclamation of my betters, or the details of some sad catastrophe. I gather the papers and drag them inside, scarcely noticing a word. Daybreak comes, and I tend to tend to beasts. What news there is will keep.
The wind chimes sing and peal their witness to the breeze, the day caught between separate claims, the sky featureless and far. The skin is sealed in legions and limits, the odd drift of biology, the secret reasons of blood. The flesh tears and mends, it aches and absolves the name of so many lost and wanton spirits. The settling of souls into the liminal songs that aggregate in dust and detritus, the trend always veering between ethereal mystery and dense reckoning. The slabs of pavement smothering the soil in its sleep, the rattle of fitful engines spitting fumes, the scuff of feet falling as feet must do. All this calamity, playing at intent.
The afternoon just bleeds away, with bird song and the canter of loose traffic. The sun falls in ripples and rivers, tides of green and piles of gray. This collision of breath and flesh abides the flow of obscure bones, the fold and stretch of form concealing most of the rumors of function. What will there was will be missing from the records, a few scattered words swallowed by the earth. What reason there was long ago abandoned, a village built upon the flood-plains, a castle sunk into the sands. Just a slew of oaths and epithets, dull promises and clever lies. Another life full of hubris and disregard, lost to all concerns.
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