So the afternoon goes aching on, shoulders heavy from looking at the shape of the sky, some song through the headphones and some song that goes tearing down the block. It’s prop work and physicalizers amid the haze and ash and dirt, sheaves of unruly green tangling around the frame. It’s squirrel biz and bird work and windows that haven’t been washed save by the rain. Roads hedged by mismatched trees down to the last band of bright horizon, until dark clouds lour in bunches against the dense thread count of the gloaming as it weaves. These wants taped to the dithering mirror, these wishes unwinding at the first loose web.
So your breath slips and slides, your body and its wild tides. Earth and water and wildfire, this subtle symphony playing out in the brickwork of the elements, you all caution and chemistry. The night always new, the day finally broken, another scheme fulfilled. The story somehow stalled out in the drive, here we are, still amongst the livid living. We rain down our exclamations and declarative spittle as of this reading, the voyage between moments full of fine print and the unknown. You feel it as it drains away; you feel it come flooding back.
So I kept it inside, out below the night. I kept it clasped tight between heartbeats, down beneath the stars. I left it here where the dust gathers without dust. Where the words return to the dirt of the unspoken, to the furtive nursery inside these bones, the gallery proofs of some dark garden. That seething through the soil, that hint of the myth of self, the stir behind the curtains getting the point. The sun is gone and there’s no tomorrow. The sun returns the same old day. Something someone’s always saying wearing my sworn to skin.
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