the plaintive pull

It’s at that moment of night where the twilight glow is finally fed to the ravenous west and the gravid moon rises, raining bright moonlight down upon tree and rooftop, that the witness awakens. Back hunched over the tablet tapping, a sharpness between the shoulders, elbows on my thighs, I turn rapture into captions. The gracious glory of the goddess moon arriving in radiant light upon my brow as I lumbered through the rat ravaged brambles. The shuffling beneath the plaintive pull along the darkened path, the light that beckons to be seen. 

Now it’s in and the evening moves along, soft songs and ceiling fans, the shower stall and the rescued spider’s return. Pain in pinpoints and along my faults, I drag along the path of habit, stoned dopey and silly with memories and missings. The tatters threaded with the brilliant firmament and language soaked in tallow, I add to the gathering dust, the entombed transition between tales. Something unsaid to remain unread. The message so impossibly bottled. The sea so incalculably vast.

So the wheel turns unceasingly, the blinding moon burns and swells, another number comes up quick. The old by and by, the age all at once, I clear my throat and check the clock on the wall. It’s these sparse words, then I hit the showers. It’s this fool’s mission, then I call it a night. The hard times lean in while I dream of kisses in the moonlight. Instead I call down the moonlight inside my mind, and bask in the attention, this fervent shine. Generous and careless and always on its own. The sky so vast and enchanting while I witness it alone. The words where the wonder ought to be.