induction

We won’t address it bird by bird, or build it brick by brick. One moment the body, the next the mystery, choking on the throttle cough by cough. The ghost is there, the ghost is gone, seeing stars while the band plays on. The engine in the turning over, the purpose only explosion and exhaust. The words are there at the crossing of the wires. The words a map read by lightning bolt. One hand on your hip, one hand on your throat. Somehow the spark is there. Rebuilding the world by hand.

The moon wasn’t playing either, the swell of radiance a constant shroud of becoming, always the revelation of arrival. The sky bright and bursting with reflected glory and holy shine, I dragged around trailings of cat and dog through bough eaves and bramble, the stars so hard to see. Drag the leg of most mistakes in slow hungry circles, working best up close. You are a song that plays on and on. I am a circuit spewing symbols.

My shoulders clench, my breath a stitch down the side. I clutch the counter, I glean the mirror. I give a little brush and razor. I give it a go, then I hit the showers. Time won’t look me in the eye, and my visions iffy. The words arrive as you read them. They find an opening and they mind the gap, turning over page and mirror. The old song all along. The ring a rosie, them dry bones. The words walk right through.