By the time I get around to saying it, everything is suspect. By the time it’s written, it’ll never be read again. I don’t see all the colors, I miss a lot of shapes. The form I see is the one on the wheel, the first flash still pressing through. I never know what it might look like lately. The road opens at the least provocation, it closes at every opening and curve. The knot tied and untied, the way the wheel seems to favor, these languages to spit and savor. The words working through the blacks and blues, the words thieving flesh and ghost.
It’s not that it happens more out on the road, it’s just the focus grows narrow enough to notice. It’s not that it stands out so much as burns into the ubiquity, this set of signals, talon and feather and the tear of flesh and bone. The errant metal in the very air, as the changes set and the blood goes black. The land as it opens sky, the wings visible in thought and deed, grim totems fixed upon the power lines. It is the light on fire, the rider of winds and appetites, the turn always up ahead where the head and heart align. The being and not only the story, but the story just the same.
I don’t know what this will be once the words return. The blasted days and relentless nights will go as they go, wave after wave until again I blunder, the stumble of the dissembled soul into contempt and statistic. Gone a little at a time, until the gone is all that is. Just the words as the road runs by. A river through the letters, the estranged covenants of blood and deed a gleaming along the skins. Life striving through earth and myth, a forest told in ring counts, fossilized ephemera scattered across the reach of oblivion. I want and wander and set the dice to dancing. I move so slowly my thinking crystallizes, shapes and shadows as the words crowd around.
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