It isn’t in how the walls are painted, or the dust and cobwebs as the light gives out and the color fades. It isn’t in the colors resonating from the shelves or the secrets buried in the stacks. The bright palette pressed into the eyes by the hard put insistence of these reckless apps, busy always a synonym for interesting, the tired crowd they won’t let stop dancing. Name after name, face after face. All scribbled on and colored in, scored so you know it’s holy, attributed so you know it’s scripture. The moon is out, though I’m inside, it calls me by my matter. The moon looms large in the ash heap of my mind.
It is the salt spilled from the cellar, the countertop constellations and the nirvana of your touch, the least swift gesture a cosmos erased. It is the constellations as they occur in ink, to spark and signify the bookends of the blood. It is the high window upon the tallest tiny tower you reign down from. The dusk heavy on your tongue, the song a wise knife and a tragedy of glass, the clock always glancing back. Green sprouts and black vines of mold pass into transience with the lashings of gray and rain. The earth works the tricks and the time. The foundation sways below staggered steps, the soil speaking softly as the strata reel and rollick. Knowing breath to breath.
The difference in how the name was hanged. The imminent eminence, the weight in how you say it. The difference in how the moon was cast, though always bearer of the most ancient claim, the goddess aglow and gleaming. The clouds all gather, the rain sets aim. It’s all there for the asking, it’s all there to put your hands to, this moment filled with crossed out words and the emptying of all intent. The moments misplaced that I would put you through, dead bang present as the words brush your lips, this triumph of blood by the legion. Written to your skin and hinges, this robe of unseen albedo and the riotous insistence of the text. Written to your silk and hunger, the moment held in a fist.
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