reypulque

This is that moment of warm bright sunlight smack in the kisser, where the heat and glow adorn your flesh with such attendant mention that you feel the shadow pressed from the dead center of your chest, the plaintive tear where the darkness separates your shoulders the way wings would if you gave them any thought. As if the sun sent bullets through this daily...
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From the wilted wish hued blue of the sky spilling over the eaves, from the trees that buck and bow as the wind pontificates, from this slow set gaze of this longest light always reaching for a lost horizon I fall in the moment the song’s let loose. I fall along the ley lines, I fall along the faults, the flattened affect of the undeniable...
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The season settles again on the unseasonable, my bones ring with the resonant chill, something’s always missing after a death. The hard shift to past tense, sifting through the remnants as the days dull the sharps down blunt, the different drummer beating out a rhythm of body shots and heart attack threats as the consequences play catch up. Boxed up belongings and cherished mementos with...
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So it is the scintillance of wind and leaf, abundant boughs swaying in the long last light as the sun sets off and the world falls away. So it is the anticipation of the spill of stars in the bright sky shine between shifting sheaves of greenery and this mottle of light and shadow. The dirty windows, the weary doors. A porch thick with sound...
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You can bring it to the dirt upon my doorstep. You can leave it melting in the rain. So many motions left unopened, so many stations that only the wind will fill. We fall away and the world keeps going. Little by little or all at once we are a diminishing return. Pass it on while you still have it in your hands. Shout about...
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There a glimmer amongst the salt and ash, a stranded wanderer envious of the stars, a map without a means dragging a path around. Words that fell without thought past the press of tooth tongue and breath, a light left on a reason all its own. The struggle of the bellows, the work of iron and earth, held to the workings of these buried wings....
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Beating uneasily my heart slips over the edges of the bowl, a steak plated to impress blood red over bone white, oh the savor, oh the sacrifice. The night is alive with appetites, a wet winter loosing a river of green fiber and stolid chitin, life ever striving to take a slice. This long losing over at long last not meaning there’s not more losing...
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They’re going to have you take a number. They’re going to make you spell it out. The softest gray before the harder colors. The feeling grown into the bones, riding out the last of the light. Only warm around the wounds, the instrument a balloon losing air, the music so much exasperation killing time. The rain comes pacing the swollen moon, smoke always hanging around....
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The crow calling loudly outside

the front window is the same

crow hopping through buds and

blossoms about the boughs of

the front yard tree reaching towards

the bright blue cool spring sky

stretching itself a path to the sun.

Those black wings warning everyone

heaven is farther than it looks.

Like the shape we call a star

marked like art across the firmament,

it...
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It’s the numbers I assigned to see you in the repetitions, it’s the name I wore down to letters and lore. Something to fondle in fist and fingers, something left to leaven the dreams. The weary report of the body, the circling of the thinking as the batteries give out, the mystery you give and the mystery you get. Always wandering from scene to scene...
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