Even in dreams the roads run dark. Even in memory the lights grow dim, savoring another savior, singing along to that favorite song though you never knew the words. Watching from the hollowed out tree of a heart, wings and their shadows. An inferential intuition of flight.
The moon fades away into busywork and backdrop, crimes left from scene to scene. Oh, the echo. Oh, the clue dropped in an envelope. The die is cast. The sea in the air far from now and here always there, the crashing tide and sea lions barking, a Ferris wheel unlit and still. Kisses upon cliffs.
It is in the way they write memories, slips and snippets bound with song and scent, a flavor for a moment met. The bright stars, the shadowed woods, the way redwood trees descend from the roots of heaven. The incremental ambiance as details are recovered and reconstructed, taking on the savor of the immediate flesh.
It is in the way we absorb occulted culture, the myths that wove the primordial tongues, the way these stories grow unacknowledged in these deserts of the telling. The Madonna and the monkey do. Highways dotted with signs and fairy lights, numbers for names and numbers for exits, the ghosts of the Central Pacific haunting the brutal passes where their bones lie exposed. Hollywood and the latticework of irrigation across the old latifundia and the Big One always in the wings. Streets sick with gun culture and serial killer migratory maps, and Bigfoot embarrassed for the lot of us.
The freeways always reaching, white lines in the headlights, white lines fading in the rear view. Faces with disappearing stories, faces etched into the blood, names folded into the forbearance and that feeling where you disappear. The flicker of years cards in bicycle spokes, newspapers flung into the drive, teenagers hurling stones and epithets as the clock ran out. The sky gone red and every breath a burn. Bridges collapsing into the sea. This old ache, this ageless enmity, the roads run and run.
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