stride

I let the day have my back, sitting on the front porch with wall and window between me and the sun pressed against everything behind me. The dogs lounge in sunlight while the shadows push their way out. The wind rises as I cup my hand to the flame, leaning into the light up. Drag and draw, lean back and look. All these slow devotions, the day busy going, the fanning of the indulgent pyre of dusk by the green laden limbs. The trees all swaying, slowing their breath with the leaving light. 

Sometimes you have to listen to the music. Sometimes you have to kick the words around. Sometimes you’re a caution, sometimes you’re all crutch. The experts of the moment have to put it to you, the endless addendums and the tiresome reveals. It’s a problem both with the language and the form, as all fast magics must. It’s a problem with the comfort of the tongue, the hard truths never said. The defenseless taking the initiative to attack, not one note or word the different. The walk through the garden because god’s already plenty mad. 

There’s a spot I’d have you scratch is usually how I quickly miss you. An itch out of easy reach and this cruel indulgence. How heavily the fantasy has to lay it on. Pretendings laid out in strata, the song ever timed just so. As if you would ever, as if I’d really want you to. The wind whips through the greened trees, the shadows reach out further on. No reason for writing, no room for wishes. Done before the saying hit its stride.