Rags and wishes

It's happening again - the voicelessness
the return to the place of slanting light
and long shadows.

Water purls over stony beds
trickles -
then dry.

I've never written anything
that hasn't written me
cowardly skirting the white-hot center
outside the horizon within which words go not.

Gentle shock waves
buckle your being
shake you apart
into rags and wishes
orbiting tossed salad
face, feet, and temperment intact
yet disconnected.

Within the stream of bric-a-brac
the nearly invisible god-being
wafts along like smoke.