The late light longs for the shape of a land laid-out; it lies along untended tall fields, silent. See from the bright highway out and across my way, how long twilight fills distant valleys knee-deep in gray twilight? Meanwhile I remain gray-eyed and longing as any eveningtide.
And as I grasp in my own suddenly moving mind's shy light—who now am found; blinded, but now am seen—sundogged in shining cloud from haze of dry leaf to knuckle at chin, I see, for the sake of the last known light of the land past-shorn willow groves moving me, the river, longing, still longed-for.
Their efforts are an ocean. A pager sounds in Brooklyn. His newer enemies understand that some whomever has heard the glass wall of day dropped through our sight and into, well, a whole nother vocabulary, to rear its ugly head. Mix metaphor like DNA. Syntax like a racehorse with a broken leg. (Take me to the river; the river never moves....) Constellation, directly overhead. And innuendo—directly overheard. Lose me. Lose an eye for a single light.
Magic strikes and sinks a textured sky, stands upon words deliberately left unspoken. Swallows dive past the peak of that barn roof and a field brown with another year's drought. There's a bus takes us to another town and a woman standing by the side of the road watching hours accumulate in her hard hands. There's nothing I want to leave behind for you, anymore. I lost our longhand. I laughed. The sky is quilted with cloud but no rain. And I deliberately lost the phone number to my own home. Three crows on the road shoulder watch us pass.
He was right, thinking desire had taken a personal day today. My head towards the outside. Your name on a rice grain. Her mane on fire. Watching could. Milk does a body good.
Small bodies lay patterns of black blood onto the highway. And oil stains cement set in sluice pipes, gratings bound with commuters' intent, computers' blind eyes hounding the rising moon, this mood of cartilage and solvent, silicate washed away.