the elder bones

Gull shadow and crow wing, the stretch of surface and sunset glow upon the house fronts I face catching the last curls of life in silhouette, the roster riddled with upstarts and back stab assassins. Seated with my back to the hurtling ever onward, perched upon the edge of archetype, the border of the once worlds and which worlds a trick of mind and light. The epiphany still lingering despite the willful discord I invite, the words all at once as if spoken aloud in my skull. The passing of an ordinal dog, the clock down to its last count. The opining of the cats and the wind.

The earth turns over and sends forth its shadow, the blue heaven bright stretch of sight before the stars are stitched on the last fluttering of the day’s drowsy eyes. These plates to keep spinning, these circles to spell out. The crows slowly coursing to their roost, the bitter slip of tongue weighing every breath. All things bright and beautiful plus sirens and car alarms. A bass note dragged along every door and window. A shaking that is necessitated by the placement of root and flesh. The elder bones crack and seethe. 

I suppose it is the slow burn, the ratio of stimulus to story telling, the holes left in language by lost symbols. I suppose it is the flow between forms, the race of wave after wave. I crack my neck, I trail smoke, I rattle in and out of static. There is a momentum of the world yet to be, a sweltering of intention, animal actions and craven alibis. There is a buckling of being as the framework folds, a vast collapse as meaning shifts its stance. A bright light as the physics gets serious. The rest is blast and burn and aftermath. A moment of silence before the words start piling on.