213
Close the door and play the peace song on my skin. A trumpeter’s anthem. Blue notes like bruises laying in shadow. Hum the number I remember. Tell it like you did before, the waiting bait. The long armed listening. We’re in hiding now, unhinging our flickering dim twinned sin. Call the candles like children to a party. Warmth and weathered wood will be witness to the swiftness of this gift, this shifting tenseness. Now answer, head first, molded like a clay sculpture felt into being, a new tender twist on bliss. Freedom to cave in, music in the muscle and skin. Beggars of bedtime barrages of bending ending tender candy. Melting in sugary grains across the plains of arched landmarks, milestones. Archaic maps are made from eyes that saw and remembered, traced and descended. Close the door and believe in the steam of windows wintered over. Open to the cloud and kickdrum of thunder. Whistle of wind spending the last of its summer grin. Can we call ourselves fools again? Prove the voracity of empty theories and scream and cackle and murmur through dark hours that line the insides like a dark velvet dream. I have the key and the lock and the season of shining to show you. Close the door and…
