We are bleached out poles holding up tattered flags of twilight. Wind forsaken, standing solo on rooftops of age-curled ache and desire.
Where did that day go when we were flush-young and needed no one? Or was there ever such a day? Did we forever turn away the band of poet-souls that reached toward us—as to deliver us?
Now all our larcenous knowledge and self-evident truths, once sweet as stolen fruit, has turned bitter in a single sober hour. And our confession here has left us no retreat: die or start again.
Cut down like this we may again dream of being green and full of sap. But now the way ahead is to go about baring our throats to a promise so far off it’s as though it never was.
And what mojo remains for we, who now like moles dig through the damp earth? Perhaps to nose out, among all the wants, a nocturnal companion or two. Or to dream of rising at night above the garden to reap some assurance from the stars.
In these dark burrows of unknowing, a shaft of light, as through a crack in the clay, would be enough. A low tremor, a resonating foot fall, a dog bark far away, would be enough; to say nothing of a whisper of love.
