Tuesday, August 1, 2017


And after he had spoken all his words—they lay like hot dismissive stones upon the plaza of his familiar disregard—I walked across a bridge of years to August.

He’d said I had not changed a bit and this was what I did not understand.

My hair is grayer now. I understand how much I cannot know, but most of all I’ve learned to listen to voices in the sandstorm singing in excoriation of skin, flesh and bone.

And then it all became as clear as I had been to him.

How could I change when life—my frailty, my dreams, my love—was simply just the scope of all he would not, could not see? In shame I coiled in a circle and ate myself in hatred, until I drifted off across the desert in clouds of sand—bound for blood and ocean.

But now a lizard moves behind the old guitar and every thought is swollen like a tongue. The rain may come and fall so hard it stings me naked on the sand. The evening comes, derails the frail attempts to bend it into meaning—to give it love and mystery. The Gods of August have no such feelings.

And that is good, for once again I’ve come to August to be the someone else I always was but never knew.

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