facing further

I never know when to stop, but I don’t know when to go. I don’t know the activities for any of the whens. The clock is a list that goes unread, every second a slew of words more. Farther in the telling, closer to the told. The tribute and the trials, the clutter of the altar licked clean, the soul salted with sacraments. I call you to mind, fitful with the ritual. I cling to the dream, your rapt admission into evidence. The proof of the ablution, the cadence of the praying. Your urgency these fervent repetitions. All your stretch and reach.

Another day spent in boxes. Another night clattering around in rooms. LED halos and the mantra of the bathroom fan. The hunchings of the organism, the bleeding on the clock. Stiff muscles and sore organs, sticks and stones battering the bones, immortality running down. Bathing in my ashes, drowning in ember and spark. I speak aloud to know my lonesome. I say your name to make my will known. No rattle save the ceiling fan. No rapture of called kiss or covetous light. Just a man making wishes without a star in sight.

Tomorrow is another day when every day’s the same, the scripture and the dogma, the frames we take to make do. I stir the fires, I tend the bent, I turn the phrases so the sear evens out. The vigils I sit, the peace I keep, while years fly by and the covenant creeps. The work of this weaving between us, the surest magic the endurance of the held line. The saying, the making it so, the adherents and the whims. The turn around a little longer, until we are facing further, tomorrow the law of hill and stone. The night slow and heavy, I always want you more.