When Done

Take the morning and wring it with calloused hands to see what drips from the bloat of its beginnings, a splash of light to give gleam to a memory or mix disparate things in metaphor for the ordinary to flash fresh and be seen anew. Or perform the rites of distillation, the craft of making what something in us craves yet gives such meagre portion just to dampen lips and no more, whilst elsewhere in the shadows, or loitering in between, is the glint of promises our monuments can never keep. Blunted tools butcher out gross effigies of our gods or fit stone hands to feel the touch of flesh. The morning yields its bounty to give comfort and set something gentle within us free, leaving mere phantoms to inhabit the places where we want to be.