I sit among my ills and idylls, sinking light and soft smoke, mortal aches and open eyes. The time trails my foolish heels, the little dog having itself a laugh. From horned moon to horned moon, a sky dyed for every moon. The skulking up the rooftops, the ducking into ditches, the reel and dirge and carnal urge ahead of the accompaniment. I grit my teeth and breathe a life into the ember. I hem and haw and add another log. There is magic in all I miss.
Ask the ravens, ask the stars. Ask the card you cut to as the fire danced. It’s all above board from a certain angle. It’s one hundred percent legit if you word it just so. As you occlude your intention, this separation of word from will, playing the subtext instead of the scene wears out the spell. Count the breaths, watch the seasons burn away, the whites of your eyes to the depths of your ichor. Swallow a little of what you spit, set the trap and sharpens the stakes in the pit. A presence in every observation, a phenomenon gone in every moment met. Anything can happen, working against your words.
I ought to get up in a minute. At least maybe I should think about it for a bit. Another day behind the mule, another never under the belt. There’s always one or two more things to do, and nothing much to them but to get them done. All these years run straight through me, these tatters everything the wind and worms wouldn’t take. These devils and crowns all lying around, the sharpest of weapons, the softest of shrouds. These bones beating a dull tattoo as I rattle through the rituals, this face held tight as I am covered in the dust of dreams. I long for a separate say in a different world that’s gone well past ghost. Hanging from the branches of these attachments, dangling over this magic missed.
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