spin

It is written in the brickwork, it is stitched into the shadows, it is wringing out the tears. The startle of eyes open to the instant, the world in its spin, the day as it turns. Pretty songs from pretty singers, spring always ready to tease. A squirrel drinks, a sparrow drinks, my skin is ashy and pale. My bare shin in the bright sun a signal sent. My old limbs in the bright sun a weighing and a flight. The warm sun on my bald head an old wound reopened. The day takes it at a sprint. 

Now come the winds and the tracings, the cool gray end of a bright blue day. The pines stretch and sway, the fleeting sun barricaded by marine layer mechanisms, as the storm stirs the form. Dirt and buried pavement, the remembered intentions drowsing in the encroaching earth. Fence posts dip and rot, the tall shadow of the turning sphere rising from the ankles of the depths. The dusk it’s own comeuppance, with the fireworks left to the firmament, and the night waiting for the words. The hours rush past me, hurried counters dizzy from the clock. Sparrows sing to the illustrated heavens as the light wanders off.

There won’t be a calling though my heart says it must be so. There won’t be a singing though my lungs wheeze and bleat. There is only this seething entanglement and the keening of distance. There is only eyes to the lost direction, the bent of the horizon, and the turning of the yearn. Wishes and want sos and if only tales. Only the words that won’t say and the deeds that won’t go. You long gone, the hope turned down, and the day that was never going to stay.