I suppose there is at least one way to kill a song. It involves making the cat the practical matter in the downed tree. The trunk goes away with the mess and I tear something off, like the fragment of a wish. Then a colloid of ghosts holds the handle and I clean the bottom of the world. It means and rankles. It has to be this way, but something isn't right: the way the building storm takes to the fields and dances. The stranger thing is when I have my way with a song, it becomes something I think on, but it emerges from waking life as skinned and shuddering. Another tilted house. Not dead at all, I expect, but certainly beyond me.
Then flail, or break with false standards, ever going, and wall up in your tree for the rite. In this lasting final spring, a year is only time to watch shields flare, the forge drop, and the crows. Determine your rate of loss and slide through endless rooms of plastic yellow pails: all the forgotten ones from beach days with the kids. So many little worlds give up sun and dance, as recompense for all the meals we had to miss. My hands would hold you if you could be a torch at the dawn of this ending. I want the curled cradle of your legs under me, to tarry while the earth stops.
What, then, is this world, slippery thing, made for trying, or just here? I am here as you are, unsung crowds of shuddering lovers and night redactions. When I step to the door, an old man steps inside me, wagging a finger at the encroaching cosmos, like he could direct it. Then the boy I always wish for shakes free from the squall, and I tumble out of legacy into bright new sweat. Always is always a word of last resort. I don't need it now, but I might when the blue O of my scared mouth finally finds the tune of your breast. As if your lungs gave only gold. We dawn in each other the way the river ripples in the risen light: always the same, never the same, always falling.