There is ruin stamped into the day. Even my thoughts draw flies. The hot coffee sits, cooling in the cup. Each notion sprawls like morning shadows, light and long and losing all the time. The drift away from meaning as the words all take their moods. A bumble bee buffets the wall beside my head. Language another color in the spectrum. The geometry of tongue and time sliding off the map.
Whatever our story, we eventually surrender. Abandoning some narrow hope, accepting some bitter faith. Always the trouble of the process, the ritual of shards lost to steel. Despair and wonder become mere habit, the rote litany of shoes filled and paths taken. The weight of the wind shifting on its feet. The blue of the sky we never bother to describe.
I slide my mind outside the telling. I stretch my back and crack my neck. This pirate leaning, a heart set to stray and plunder. The set of tools always overstating the problem. The trouble and pain always out sizing the job. No lie too sorry to believe on. No star too far to escape our tired words.
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