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The day burns down slow, awash in these low winds and atmospheric blues. A swell of wilted leaves, a shimmer in the greens, a flash of passing chrome. Overwrought about the head and heart, a pin point and a ripple, always following the arc of some story. Traffic stutters by, the music lays it on thick. The date you celebrate.

There in the heartbeats and breath by breaths, the draw onward to keep on sliding down the fire. How our eyes ache as we take in the empty, the measure of this twilight against the dream, these distances that are the measure of our days. Season late or season early. A word to butt in on everything everything under the sun. This breeze brushing the knees. The calendar reasons.

What am I but these same mismeasures? These past tenses and abridged regrets. Fragments flickering against unnamed actors. The slack and slander of flesh over time. The first suggested searches. I sit out as we all fall down. I sink with the spin, the naming and the nothing. I follow the rising night.