all the bridges

What of the dawn when there is still the west before us? What of the day when the east is a wall at our backs? The hands go cold and the keys release their characters grudgingly, every letter getting its money’s worth. How strange the shadows cast off the long ladders and crumbling trellis, the porch light pushing the shadows off the shapes, stretching strange game boards and ill fitted hints. The coffee steams, another strain borne by silence. The stars shine, though through no fault of our own. The whole morning is missing you.

There was a roadside attraction, a vague space giving off gallery vibes, feeling like a natural history museum with a curator changing displays out of frame. It was that sort of dream, some exchange of sudden pleasantries as the path gave way to a sun slung wood, an access ramp into the building, an elk from another time lazing in a meadow just beyond a hinted window. The conversation turned from bright to burdensome as I aired grievances and you turned restless. The never said stayed unspoken, but that brief bright moment lingered even as the dreaming gave way to a gasping for air. Suddenly my room with the music playing, alone save for scattered animals and the lingering curse of being me.

Incense burns in absence of prayer, all the bridges used up years ago. My glasses go gray with steam, my lips pressed in slow sips against the steel. Pain paints me true and bitter, alone in the early chill, my bones old and easily robbed of warmth. Strangers sing your praises and make their passes. Who can blame them? I sing your praises too. The stories told out of school, the threadbare offhand alibis, the patchwork peace kept with the chimera of your tale, I have left them behind. But still, in the cold early air I stare towards your horizon, breathing blessings and spitting verse. I tread the slumber of earth and the steam of being, always in the broad periphery, mingling with each word that comes out of your mouth. Gone, gone save for the dreaming. A dream spent on waking, a gift left out by the curb. There are no words, only hours, and stars that fade before I remember they were there.