the air apparent

The storm keeps talking once it gets going, it spills it all in sheets and waves, a tide of beaded apparitions pacing out the very air. It lingers between ghosts and dreams, wearing the flickering of mind and light, the arms of that old rocking chair. This tattered breath, this worn through belly blazing bright behind the night, mementos stricken on the brick and mortar of being trailing sparks. This accosted shuffle along the coil, these curses clambering down my tongue, the rainfall carrying the warmth of wishes and the aspect of your gaze. I sit beside the window with the rain holding the sky for ransom, a bone sore beacon for horrors yet unknown.

It is that nude in descent, the downward trend of the aperture’s aftertaste, that incandescence of cognition that lays the gospel step by step through every chamber. Rain through the pines, the shifting of old timber, groans and cracks the stress singing through the structure. I breathe outside your atmosphere, the one breath rolling from root to crown, awakening in the dreaming skin of gathering dragons. After the figure of the river, after the form of the snake, the water boiling away in the eternal impermanence. My heart clenches around the sharp end of the moment, a pattern painted in negative space, the lock holding tight despite the kicked down door a bedlam of hinges and splinters. 

The days blur beneath the deluge, flood warnings and secret symbols, the structure shifts and bucks. The thought becomes the shadow, the shadow becomes the body, the body stirs in the indeterminate boundaries around the now and the name is set. You can speak it out loud, ask it your questions, tell it all your stories on and off the clock. It goes on stalking, it comes a- knocking, never mind the weather or the hour. There’s always someone else’s party, someone else’s tomorrow, the music riding down the rooftops with the rainfall. I never see it coming, but you always managed to play it close to the vest. The walls full of rumors, the roof lousy with holes.