In the night, I hear a skipping clatter pacing in a single drawn out scuffle.This clamor, more monumental
than planets or stars, is rolling toward heaven with violence from a raw but tamed yesterday.
A leaf outgrown from the stem walks the lonely road in solitude, surrounded by thinly veiled dark walls of hammers and brooding light, plucking sound from the universal pool of whispers, darting past faceless brick stomachs which stand artless, like post war cemeteries. Scratching the pavement, this urban tumble weed groans hellfire and Nazareth gold in thorny
echoes, fenced in by the night and its rapturous paragons.
The teeth of the suburbs, morose and hollow, arch above frozen houses on a warm
December dark, and the organ crawls away
from life, to grow in solitude, surrounded by a
Colosseum of chattering drunk uncles, bound to the thick,
brief mortality of capture by narrow, humorless blades.
Light, rigid and thin, twisting and dancing, laughing in high tonal plumes at the dead wreaths tacked to wooden and glass door frames, while skipping toward the culdesac's end.
The sound of the leaf grows further, swimming along the distant breeze into the infinite night toward blonde shores. The porch is motionless, but surrounded. The many fallen had watched the one, but now the one,
becomes one of the many watching and tamed by the ominous spear of tranquil commotions it makes sleep affordable, and living gallant.
I imagine the scratching of a dark masked angel, who drags
a pitchfork that tilts from one fork to the other, in search for each fallin angel, It prances on thin toes in dark spaces, a jester on copper tables, to bring back home, to forget about, and celebrate every echo.
