As if I could breathe within this steady pulse beat of a moment, stretched until it screams, and the need of it and this howling things cuts me down, and I am holding your hand somewhere too far away, I am holding, holding you, like last summer’s fallen idols, I am holding, holding lightning in a box.
Occupied as I am this intrudes upon any semblance of silence, this wanton hope grown large with waiting.
As if I could suddenly cut this loose like a black string from the left ventricle of a sullied heart. I could mow this over and over again, I could name it, I could feed it, and yet I could never be rid of it. What I do know, what I do know is that sometimes there is simply no remedy. Though I am stable, my abdomen has been opened and it houses all my storms, all those dust-bitten worries tumbling between stark visceral truths.
Only this. This one thing. This only thing.
Light a match and for a moment the dark is banished.
We hide and are hidden like somehow, even in these times, there is still a ritual for what happens when these things do. I stand apart and am covered like a beekeeper in my silence, my selective whispers. Standing back, hoping not to be seen, but then seen but that from which I cannot hide. Only this. This one thing.
Lost cartographers trying to find their way over smooth landscapes of desire, broken lava beds of despair, try to put some path ahead of us. Widows and saints shake their rough-hewn hands, in deadlocked desperation. What name now can I give it? From where does it come and where am I taking it?
Only this. This, only….this thing.