All at once it was raining, slow and steady like it was racing a rabbit. Just like that, though the forecast had said Sunday. There’s no accounting for the future— it’s never where you put it and by the time it gets there, it’s gone. You can watch the horizon. You can hold the high ground. Maybe then you’ll see it coming. Maybe then you’ll finally get it right.
From Terpsichore to petrichor, from the mysteries at the borderline to the hollow at the core, we move from motion to sense to nevermore. The music and the misdirect, the pleasant presentation and the ever present past, we fumble through the repetitions. We mumble under the chorus, grim or giddy beneath the irredeemable themes. This one, that one, and the dumb recitations of what god knows best. We dance in precious reverence, rewarded only by chance and guile. Tomorrow never knows because it isn’t ever there.
I am adrift amid the skin of all things, all this matter that doesn’t matter to anyone but me. These stray cats and hidden stars, the vacant heart beneath the scooped out moon. Hoisted by my own petard though I didn’t even know what one was or that I had one, done in by dribs and drabs. That old voodoo that you do taken in heaps though a little dab’ll do. There are fields out past the fields, mountains behind the mountains beside the sea. Counting down the exits by the number, the headlights only showing where you go. The rain that falls, the rain that’s missed. The sky the only soul I know. The falling rain the last likely kiss.
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