the grays

Winter yet, the day held gray, a savored breath unbound. Winter still, the husk fogging up the mirror and the lenses. Proof by the plate, proof by the probability, proof by the fire kept alive. The cold day a slow drip, the icy earth steeping new meanings in every released breath, the lungs staggering the atmosphere. Unfurled smoke, the proud flag of the transitory trailing sign towards the sky. Plumes of smoke all the offerings this wreck attends. The flame abides between the tides of blood and breath. The flame always first in line.

Hold onto loose leashes and empty collars, the story still untellable wherever you go. Cling to the old photos and the offered ash, keep the facts at arms length for a while. Let the teeth savor all they bite, however empty the calories, however hard to swallow. To the bleed, to the bone, to the ruined temple left to burn and rot. The words gather, honey to the hive. The words gather, sting to the wound. Nerve to skin, wit to panic, the where is always now. This moment by your measure, this voice speaking. 

Out in the chill when the dusk comes, I smoke and hold my tongue. Out in the grays when the day gives way, I give the wind and cinders a spin. The reason of the rhythmic moon, the gulf between the burn and the being, these feeble words and this liquid drift. The hollowed out rituals of a spent entity, the whimpers of the dreamer, the wailing of the animal. I sit here while the sky gives way. I smoke out here while all the warmth burns out. Amid the flickering of blues and blacks, the dead eyed gathering of the grays.