DAY EIGHTY-FIVE (2015-7-2)
The day is a dense, unknowable knot.
Underneath the surface is a pool of cold, a cloven heart
and a space to attempt to stay calm. The world outside quivers,
as if overly ripe fruit on the branch, waiting to fall. It is soft to the touch
and fetid with need. Inside, there are bones. There are tendons, taut.
There are the echoes of tongues, taunt. There are a million ears
hearing the unfortunate oscillations of waves. It is hollow in the snares.
It twists, attempts to pull free, and sinks into the dark again.
It lays, eyes rolling and wide in their sockets, nostrils flared.
This is what it means to stop: the slow, cold pocket of dormancy.
The weight of the thing is enough to hold fast the lungs, to pause breath.
Each struggle only makes the edge rise higher, to lap against the lips and palate,
bitter and full and crisp with the knowledge that whatever is brought in,
will choke. Fur mats, skin folds. It resigns itself to that lonely,
singular element of being.