It’s in the things they’ve got you seeing. It’s in the words suddenly on every tongue. The trick in the telling, the switch at the gate. The heat of this sudden conversation spurred by each word weighed. The pretty please and contradictions, the old catch and release. The devils once fed by spoonful all run riot in a rush. All the options you abandoned by the way you held your peace.
It’s the speed of blood just spent of breath, the options you lost by the way you spoke. The old incantations and the languid all at once, saying as you seem. The direction of the stitching, the strength of each thread. Isn’t it the way things happen? The magic does its thing.
We awake on the shore of consequence, after the repercussions and the ricochets, and the tide of time and chance. Driven on through the fleet years and the obdurate days, always knowing where you’re going, never knowing why you went. Swept along with skin and song, driving through the mind of night. The rain as it reaches between us, the smell of the earth, the singing frogs.
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