I could go the way of smoke, tobacco for the broad strokes, cannabis when I want to swing it from the rafters. I could billow and plume depending on the direction of the breath, rising as I disappeared into sky and wind. Any little something to pin on the season, any little ritual to help shape the day. There is the dread of time, and the dread of self. That lamp that won’t be extinguished, that fire that will not be doused. Someplace to hang the numbers from, somewhere to put the needle.
The mind ties its knots with coiled proteins and the revealed bandwidths, making strata and cutting puzzles from the sky. The muse sticks their fortuned fingers in and stirs the pot. The animal scents it out while the entity licks the spoon. So what if I am all wish and swoon? Better beings than me have left lesser fragments hanging, embraced by gravity and the shameless pawings of the wind. Better angels than mine have trudged on for less.
Again I write as the light runs down. Again I smoke with the flow of the east, the face first fall into starlight. Nothing much but a notch on the long toothed post. Nothing but a box of ink blocked off on a calendar, all the subtle incantations forgotten, all the supple tongues folding in languid obscurity. Dogs bark and children play, traffic at its turn, the twilight doubles its portion. The same old words make another walk on, spilling towards the gray horizon, my heart another habit gone to ground.
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