tom taylor - And so you see

And so you see, rider, there’s not much left of me under all stars claimed by what I am within these lines and doubts arrived not so much suddenly as what is not used in the claims I make for whatever follows… these are the marching lines across the time we’ve let them in and called the day our own measure from beneath the arms where the heart lies in pieces remarked by none and sung by few. The ark has loaded arms and legs for the long journey to the stars, and we clear the decks below from the cattle and the dogs relinquishing their own space into the light. The moon clings to the skies’ clamor and throng, as if a message might become its manner in the tunes we’ve sung aside and now. Below the rooms of light and dark, there are no new songs but the old ones repeated from the rescue decided from what was marked out as new and proper…. Now the acres spin, and across the line names are thrown around like food or stupor. We’d journeyed into this new air with some hope and destiny, promised by our own beliefs that some relief was sighted on the horizons of our journey, yet disappeared within the mists of actual facts which reported outside the lane of duty the open seasons for our repeat. This is the other side of the coin, neither edge nor flavor, but the rancorous postures of our cohorts clear the decks of all but the hardy in their slickers and rubber shoes eking the foreign shores their spoken sign and storage for the future’s clasp. There is no relief in sigh and palm from the outer reach. All about us gray shadows renew the air with their own vague acts from which there is no portion in retarded scope for the fallow moon to scale anew. You’d said my hours were lined with sleep, yet here in the darkness which begins the day, another sound is heard within these lines from the deeper reach. A linear spoke rims the hours one on one, sea-rider, and the clarity of honor’s realm is sealed by what follows. I shore your creek of false removal or spear these words like fish in the tank, wriggling and breathing with their own life, parted from the waves by intent and the resignation which follows deeper lines across the page into your light. My own aisles are swept clean of their reap and treasures piled by the door into the next day’s hours clear to the edge of the plane and simpler scores. Hours fall aside. No measures kept from the reports are marked ‘new’ and ‘other’ from the spare times remembered like a dune cascading in blues and greens onto the canvas from beyond. Certainly, it’s dark in this reach of climate and song, yet the promises made are still latent in the air around us, assigned by someone else into their newer realm. Some allegory persists where the clothing left by the door belongs to someone else, and deeper in the recall of what went by too soon to be approved or digested, the promises are renewed as if by hands and arms waving in the air. The moon imagines our portion and resumes its’ nightly prime and manner from other, more fortunate callers. I’d shore this fault of reluctant lines and coax them forward in the lingering tides reaching the other shore. Grains of sand enlarge my house daily into a castle for others to inhabit. It is not my claim to make nor yours to give. The creak of oars announce the crew landing in this mist of uncertain names. The further reach is marked as if the matter could be known and yet a mysterious climate charges us with knowing and time.
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I fresh my pardons clean to the end of rhyme. The lowering sound of mutant animals makes another song declare that this is the other language calling out for speech and image in the rough days approaching like a hurricane across the seas we knew as calm. Approach and be recognized, the sentry calls, but we do not listen and charge ahead from one side to the other in regard, in tense and outer, in newer times the day is flown again.