Time builds it up to tear it down, the wheels on the bus, the six white horses when she comes. Sodden with songs, smothered in stories, every road always going off on its own. At the reckoning of her glory, this distance slowly seals the deal. Letters kissed with Os and Xs, momentous oaths and sloppy sex wrinkling the pages. Here we go with our hands in our pockets. Here we are with nowhere left to look.
It’s the hour of the least interest, the songs from the service, the lights always about to give up the ghost. The world of this waking, the world of this want. A muted sun, a peekaboo moon, the sudden violence of startled wings. The things you said and the things you have yet to say, sleep the solace left to seek as the room dies down. Day and night and every hue too good for you, the same old scenery from that tired old show. A brick, a heart, a clout from a cop.
It’s not the ghost, it’s not the corpse, it’s not a hey nonny fleeting folly flag. The dull wit residue stretched across the drumhead, these phrases that sound of a beating about the brains. The misdirect of the intellect, the symbols where they send you, dog whistles and the impoverishment of the palette. The meal we see posted, the love we’ve been sent. The harder colder left to go.
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