From The Alley

Stepping out the backdoor, God moves over the water, salt drips from the wound. The dam, perhaps, broke and the curious, now, know what has been silent. The brand ripples ash, dropping three stories in a wanton love, in the mystery of rain.

Holding with each breath, triplets on the piano, the skin of the ocean is a mask, don't dare break surface, the fear of drowning in the freedom of air. Lightning scars and leaves, but not before it shows flaws. Little deaths erupt all around with the softness of volcanoes.

Stories flesh out old faces, each more elicit than the last, notes fall off the horizon, the belief the world is flat is too great a secret not to believe. Raindrop staccato explode their goodbye.

The gates will soon shut. A bang, another chorus of storms. The clash, the fury. The wind plays down the direction it's allowed, howling a sweet lullaby down the alley. The melodies harmony in wind chimes exhales the final coda.

Down to the earth, to dust. To belong to something if not willingly but to belong. To gospel from memory a babble a billion years old, to sing truth in a voice from no one, to soothsay morality in a bottle at sea, to believe, in a way, to be dead, in a way, to mime the refrain of another life and live forever.

Puddle scum in potholes; the dirt has grown groggy. More than three stories exist in this tenement building, but what matters now is-- Thunder! the canvas is a muddy blank