Life is a span of hands and the measure of the time without. It’s seeing the sky for the trees. Basking in shades of black and blue, burning through this stubborn flesh, stutter stepping down the stairs in the dark. Curses and caveats and endless bouts of sorrow. Reaching in pockets as things are spilling free. The terse resistance of the pavement, the giving of the ground.
Someone is always blessing bread and the rain is always going. Smoke curling like crisis from the bricks. Always aches and dreams swapped like hostages, the clockwork of the long count out. The dwindling cast of characters, the surrendering of sight. The gathers of dusk, and all at once, the night.
It’s not the words, it’s not the way of saying so. It’s the call of the drum, the fire in the night. The bell by being there reminding you of ringing as yet unheard. The tide of the tongue in the air around us. This lonesome bawling in the distance of dark. The truth that you touch at once.
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