November 5, 2012
This bar grew from stone and wood, russet and cream. Trees lean on the porch, nonchalant. I'll take what he's having. Hear: phrases sung from in-between. Strange babies, microphones desirous of lips. Buddy's car was having trouble, brakes like grinding teeth. Overhearing, someone fixed it without saying a thing. One table collects candles from the others; they divine in flames reams of words, faces Midas-oiled. Without power, the set moves acoustic. Two inscribe a circle: their voices are caves, cloisters of scarce-seen motes. Light falls far from here. Guitars've outgrown us. Drums move inward. I touch you, in the way it was before language, and my lungs brachiate into song.