over turn

It’s late enough to wonder, but still too early for the asking hour. After dinner but not too late for one more cup. Some movie blathering in the background, the glasses smudged from adjusting. Two bites of sweet to one of salt, the time idle on the tongue. The sacred by the bushel, the blasphemy in small morsels. Awaiting constellations, we come to parley with the moon. 

There is something of the first cup of coffee, of that cloud busting smoke. The ignition of these little rituals, the engine turning in tiny bursts. The black bitter heat, the sweet curl of fume imbued with breath and blood, the allotted slips and sparks that allow time to pass unharried by angst and alarm. The righting of the over turned cup, the tap and turn of the biding burn. Bruised and blessed we while. 

The stamp and tantrum of every letter spelled word runs down the page I still somehow imagine as flecked with pulp and drinking ink, instead of this dull simulacrum slipping shine down screens. I burned a few prayers and uncoiled my soot into the locked box sky. Like stolen wishes and blown kisses, I attend to my departure. The night thick with it and the moon bleeding bright.