A Sense of Amethyst

The cards tell me nothing. Remember the onions at dawn, remember a sense of amethyst? Anger comes out of the hills and laughs at the gallows I insist was built for someone else's neck. Flames lick the horizon when we settle for the night, our bodies livid like stray coals. Why am I always looking up at the moon? What narrative makes its way through my bones, even as they decline to rest? Why is my jaw too tight for a song? I live in declarative sentences that speak mainly of the need to get away. Is a monastery somewhere missing a monk? Family is destiny, destiny an envelope into which the light is pressed. Whatever we celebrate is ash floating in blackness. Nobody likes to say it but in time, all wrecks become the ocean.