Spring shows its hand a little early, what with the birds all a twitter and swarms of glistening insects creating clouds in the sky. Peach blossom pink petals caught on the wind, awaiting some buzz or luster. Kids caught in the dumb scrum of childhood, laughing, squawking, spilling through the street. The corner boys play gangster, practicing their sad thousand yard glances. The night cleaved with sirens and misfires, mosquito bites and the endless prowling of cats.

I feel the press of shadow, the bloody plunder of nerve tangled years. The eye blink passage of our slow drawling lives played out beneath the illusory eternity of the ghosts of history’s stars. Myths and constellations clutter our foul reckless mouths, prayer book reasons spat into these impossible distances. I feel the tide of breath flow through me, the crashing cycle of life’s waves breaking in my blood. I feel as if I might catch a blown kiss, if the wind ever wrights itself within the storm of this life.

I ache in right angles. Original sin dots my irreverent I’s and Christian T’s. Reading slipped sentiments that I could never write. Writing these silent drowsing plagues. It staggers, the resolution of impact. Bones aligned with history, saving all their telling for that insistent grave. A mouth full of gravel, marbles lost where I did not see the game.