Putting It All Down

We put it all down drifting lightly over the faceless, those days between joy and doom. Looms the write seeking to thread a life through a needle. The print not ink, nor blood, but only a lip-reading of the hours. Events are picked like ripe or dangerous fruit, the dull stays stored in moldering boxes, or nailed into the escutcheons of rusting locks. The specificity of a moment is given a greater gravity than it ever had, yet we put it down fasten it to strings of sounds and then extoll or deplore once more.