nighthouse

It’s the sort of day where I can’t face the sunset, the sort of day when I can’t look the moon in the eye. Suddenly I’m all banker’s  hours and rolling up early, locks set on door and gate, the dogs loosed to do their worst. Lights on early through dusty hall and reeking room, a slab of animal, the hint of incense, black mold and lingering smoke. The way a haunting starts, through brute habit and lost count. The way the cycling seals itself in. 

Cold hands and bitter teeth, squinting and spitting away the time. Shelves laden with tome and relic, sealing wax and turned lines, signal and static weighing down the wood. Black coffee steaming with cruel intent. The porch lights lit against the clinging glow, the sun scratching at the hull of the night. We gather our magics and totter through the scene. 

Careful when you clamber up the altar. Careful where you spend your prayers. The hour is always getting later. Tears come due more certain than rain, reason more a stranger than even justice. Best save your receipts. Locked away and all used up with the lights turned on. Madness gambols and gallops on the tumbled breeze. Miracles may come and go through the deep passage of the night. This allotted portion, this sop of plot. The part I can neither know or tell.