You're the sort of person
Who steps off a corner into traffic
As though the headlights like everything else
Were too slow to touch you
The last night you were here
I never saw you
But your passage was marked by a convulsion of light
As on all sides bright insubstantial chatter
Turned raw and vitreous before rending
All you ever leave behind is a lack
You gave me a picture, once
Of a winter sun-pale room with a half-open door
I watched it steadily, steadfastly
Through racking days of sickness
Prayed to it, the clean and solitude
With blood on my lips
I never saw who entered
To mourn the hollow space
It's cold as fuck and the coven (3/5 of us) are hunkered down in the alley behind Dickens. T. gives me a bit of a hard time about the watch.
"Right, because nothing says spooky black magicians doing dark rituals like a Donald Duck watch."
"Look, between the fucking steampunks and collectors, it's getting *hard* to find cheap fully-mechanical watches these days, okay? Beggars can't be choosers. It's gonna be scrap in a few minutes anyway."
So we throw up a quick circle with powdered charcoal so we can see the line against the dirty snow, fumbling with the lighter and the alcohol, which flares briefly blue but gives no warmth.
I set down the watch and the roll of caps and fumble for the hammer in my purse.
"We ready then?"
T. and M. nod.
"Alright. Give me a countdown."
"Three. Two. One."
"IAO ENTROPY
YOU CAN'T WIN
YOU CAN'T BREAK EVEN
YOU CAN'T QUIT
(pause)
BUT WE CHEAT"
I bring the hammer down on the roll of caps, which makes a satisfyingly loud bang and sends a shock running up my arm. The kids smoking behind the dumpster peer around the corner curiously. I sweep the demolished watch into a small paper bag, pour the rest of the booze on it, and leave it burning forlornly in the middle of the alley. We don't look back as we return to the light and heat and noise.
When clarity is smothered by
The whispered scorn of the chorus
I long for silence
The sword between sensation and analysis
Dissolution of qualification of
Moderation of
Sober second thought
Letting the unmediated now
Pour through every unshuttered window
The blissful relief when words - finally - fail
