A Night Walk. (Prose)

Pennies and old skeletal-like lining threads slip out from the rafters of the grey old well in the mall—search in for the coin, fiddle with it, the dirt croaks under nails,

like the bridal hem that touches the base of the floral steps, patterned by the picturesque; rib of man; “leave a stone at my feet.”

The stunning sweet pressing hymn that folds neatly into the back of the pursed pocket by the empty avenue, endarkened trust, where it makes me forget when the coin is thrown in. It dangled as waterworn wood, playing with the obelisk pillar stones that tucked like the honeysuckle seeds, harvesting from an unvisited sunrise and blue lavender strawberries in the mid-summer. I fell in love with it,

as the sun left with its footing, the withering known heard cries in the dark, a rufsecent red that glints by the window with ill haulms beheaded by its midsection, an arch of that adorned with the blood of a rose’s thorn

Touches the silver frost that parts from lips, broken lips as the seeds dry, as the blood curls and rots, and exits as the bottomless dust in old, forgotten cabinets that shelve depraved gin

I carry the thread, loosening the scalding light from the skin that twists around the rhapsodic memory,

As the wind carries off to the hummingbird.

I turn and glance down at my boots when I walk into the chili powders of puddles from an absent rain, and abandon the grass underfoot—march, march, up ahead, a man and his dog, saying, as the shanty shrank, with accented cockcrow, “Stay back, stay back—” as the panoply of cell-phone towers were a reserving sight, the only lights that I could see from here, and I looked up, kindlier than the mud underneath the sole of my boot, clutched onto the umbrella, a constant lutte from the drops of rain, then none, enclosed by the damaged mutterings of  lightening way beyond the distance,

flying as fern leaves, or feet on hot coal, puttering in agony—granite souls in their maddening drunk shadows, their Virgil in the rhapsodic melodic arms of midnight, comforting as the dark wills the sea in delirium. Wind, air, spring, as I walk passed this man—who I thought would rattle, pipe held like Sartre with a weak scowl, dirtied by his look, pressing against the haunted rivers as a rosary—and promise to remember these silent flickers by a landscape of white or blind,

and I forget about the warmth of the sick sun that has fallen, buried into the bygone running hills, nuzzled as the pearled shawl that floats on driftwood. Embodies nothing.

What happened to the bearded man?

I noticed as I glanced behind, and I couldn’t see him anymore, as the belly of the wind tinged in a pressured pain, and there were no leaves in debt to the pavement of the road,

there were no car lights on, there was no blisters of light salmon stones to step on and break, taut like,

and heart beating, and agonized tiredness returning as a flesh wound,

beating from the begging moon, blood sake—and I held a finger to my hair, limp like the robin’s nest, heard of nothing, in the muzzled interruption of coughing verse—wind, you’re a mensch!

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