the days

Oh, for this radiant and graceless ache, the press of the breath, the burn of the bone. Oh, for the reach of this song, the presence of this long lost resonance recreated in the dust of the dreaming. The startle of your gaze, the casual dancing of your eyes. Wistful and watchful while playing with the fire at your feet. The picture on the bathroom calendar, the puppy staring at the sky. This reach to reach and read to read, the glitz of the habitual, the art in the exchanges. The amaze left in the days. 

A dereliction of direction. The pulsing around the poles. The breath pressed through the hair to the nape of your neck, a visit to the sacred circle, a ring a rosie around the percipience. Watching you then as you find a work around. The wind’s rise, the moon’s ken, the electric touch of your toes. All the ways you already know.

There is this vast intermittence, typewriters and castanets, the music and the disinhibitors. The strike from skin to sky. You step out where the night is always, a deft turn of tooth and tongue, the moon aware you’re watching. Step by step the stars take their cut, spinning around the sands. The bones held tight, the breath a prayer, the impositions of the form. The stretch from sky to sky, the night holding hard. This kiss, this thing we make from the turn and the say. This kiss, the insistent drag of entanglement, the days on days on days.