monolith

I wake up early, but the wounds wake up first, plain and pure as the wailing on through train. The clock is on, the flesh is melting. Everywhere you look, animals are astir. It’s the stiff in the old bellows, a stiffening of the springs, the day to day and the thirsty work. We wake naked to the grace, stunned little pinky mice fed to the snake of fate. Something moves beneath the cursing dawn. Everywhere, something stirs.

The dawn is still thinking on it and the moon looms high above the waking west. I stagger through the steps, stumble on the path, trip and jig through the ritual. The signature and the clock to punch. The sunrise ache and the day to come. The sweep of the legacy shadow and the ringing of the sky. The earth amid the appetites, the bleeding through the blessed. 

Come to sing to the stone of your dreams. Come to leave to some pittance of an offering. The streets are full and the sirens sound and your in the thick of the rush around again. The love alive in the gutters and ashtrays. The love aglow in the surrendered embers. The mystery there to welcome witness, soaked in the bent of ardent shadow. The wounds awake, and I follow along. Air brakes and birdsong, beneath the labored dailies the world burns.