The shelf life of a has-run in the political circus is approximately a year,
but the ideas broadcast can simmer into gossamer damn near forty it seems.
And what it was that slipped past me must have unraveled you also,
at least a little. It was not unseen on your face, which is as susceptible
as any other to change given the circumstances. From claims that in
the past the future has resembled the past hobbles forth a standard reaction:
put down the book or be borne aloft by its escapism. You could well
imagine the question, fast set to dissolve in the water touched by air
made stale only on days like today: wake past noon to a sound dreamt
in this crumbling corner of the earth, shadowed as if apart from solitude.
The birds sing my deepened leisure like the anesthesia of an iPhone which,
at night, dreams of being yours, too. Of all the pressures felt in my life
to achieve material success so that a woman might love me, not one of them
compels me enough to stop admiring the clouds’ ran shadows on air.
Yet from that mouth gallops the rain of past civilizations who failed to
administer whatever it was we missed back there, maybe something to lean on,
maybe something to hang in the doorway like the heuristic life of a people
seduced into lapsing their most vital years, and we continue to interrupt their deaths.