The horizon is bright as the sun relents to the realm of dusk and rain, settling the clouds on color as the world goes away. The gray and blue catching feelings from other hues as the shadows swell. Shapes turn to suggestions, words to dirt. The windows watch but the power is out, eyes blinded no matter how wide they are held open, the light largely implied. These lines are strung along a different grid, they rely on occluded sources and rainy day juice tucked away in some bottle of acid and angry metals. These lines cling to the cusp of constellations and secret perceivers, they are hung from spark and sense and the way you turn the page.
There’s the line of the fence, the line of the trees. The dark clouds bathing in that last gasp blue. Smoke and plastic spectacles, a brief sliver of shine from a message on the phone. The rain is on recess and the dark streets still sing with textured remixes of spinning tires and precipitation. Soon it is all silhouettes and screens, the days afterglow and the sound of machines. Every day a fading, every night a bloom.
There’s always the drift of smoke, the shapes of things you think you see, the forms of what you’re thinking. The witness you carry, the sentence you serve. There’s no telling, at least if it’s telling me. Hanged from the moon on my way off the tree, leaned on by the weight of creation, caught on the merry-go-round by baited brass. Waiting on the weather, waiting on the moon. Waiting on the end that can’t come too soon. Smoking what I got as I get it, sitting in the gravid dark. Eyes open in the night, bound by the unseen moon.
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