whatever stars there were

The afternoon scatters its shadows all at once, strewn from tree and stone, left to litter the yard and stretch out into the streets. Bright skies and unburdened winds, the angle of the sun’s distribution played out in a host of pointers, the day a game dealt from the same worn deck. The hand played slow and sure, you remit each detail for every cent you can get. The words run amok, meaning less the more you loose. 

Run a few hours through it, the machine keeps them coming. The scattered clouds, half a moon, and whatever stars there were. The night right there despite the lapsed transition. The night on through no matter how hard the book is hacked. The mirror always staring back, the panic caught on camera, running ice behind your eyes. The little it takes done in the intermission. The percussive aspect overtakes the invocation, your voice the crack of static, the bell tolling out its blessing. 

So we move, from dream to dream. The scrolling backdrop or the dizzying fades, the scene is strung along in the slip from line to line. The view of you, the list of wishes, all the scuffles of blood and brain the day sustains. The things I always say, the things you never said, and all the listings in that neighborhood. The place you take up in the tenses, the sentence or two you might add up to, if someone ever asks quite right. The way a name hangs when it loses purchase in the world.