Don’t get me wrong, it’s just nothing I was expecting. It’s quite lovely but I’m telling you I’m bound to take it bad. The wonder why, what I think is known. The injury just missing something. The wagering on the other shoe. The flies that light on thumb and knee, the stories of the forms. The night shift swaying softly into place, the trembling voice I am so keen to hear.
It’s not just the way it breaks, it’s the way the rack was set. The offers issued, the offers meant, the whisper of a distant scent, the way the patterns play it up in our skins. The sacred always there bleeding, the altar getting cluttered with kitsch, the offerings drifting in and out road trip radio. The ritual half happenstance, half saving for the rain. All of us, deed for deed and day for day. The wave the inheritor of the wave.
I’m out on the porch, and so by persona and by preference I am smoking. The smoke bowls and coils, caught up in the giddiness of the wind. The proprieties and the etiquettes, the gone and the yet unknown. A smattering of directions, entities that keep the cull and seed the day, older ones nameless and generous with their gifts. The knots and ribbons culture cuts us into, the stories and antecedents lost to tongue and telling. The street beset with Subarus and Mitsubishis, a pair of touring bikes roar by, rumbling away their names. The sky wispy with hazy clouds and a patient and drifting blue. So many wishes waiting for nightfall. The rest settling on dreams.
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