Comes the day past due
flame tongued and kindling boned
passing skins and sparks,
whetted on wild grays and
the too soon blues, settling
between mirror and razor,
thriving in the bindings of
speech and want, the volume of
the vessel, the swaying of the bridge.
Pine needle brushwork painting
certainty out of silhouettes
as the word come down goes around
again, the answer inscribed on
mortal punctuation, no more
name, no more traveler,
no more leaning between
the reachings of light.
This lost day, this absent bullet,
all out of bangs and bucks.
I pause a moment and
again it begins to go.
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