Friday, October 4, 2013

Where the Wind Goes to Die

A moth follows me inside. Shuttered darkness. What leaped away in darkness earlier was heavy and inelegant. The way you don't read me is a desert and I go deeper every day.

There are words I am not allowed to say, as there are stories I am not allowed to tell. Cattail stand at the far edge of the field. Stars seen through dim clouds. We are always pressed for time, always.

Perhaps this time I will send you a letter. Ask what God requires. The sentences trail off and in the distance a siren begins. We are unknowable in the end.

Thus marriage, thus this. Drinking coffee I think of calling you. Words slip like figs from my throat. Accusations rest in the corner like boys with swords.

Would you if I asked? We make promises and they are wind, they are where the wind goes to die. She can bear silence better than he thought. Weeping insects ascend through maple ladders.

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