Turning Keys

In his dialogue. So enormous. We walked. Word by word. Fist to cheek. Clenching our sightlessness in a mad attack against all the pictures already taken. Playing the cylinders in that lock like piano keys. Until feet were too bruised to dance.

Just barely night and already morning. In his dialogue was the counting. Cold petroleum hiding under bitten nails. And all the words I'd never hear.

The road hunting us again. Slowly learning the hoofbeats of the pavement. The tread of their indecision. The night has no stirrups. No reins.

We ride it bareback.

With our eyes closed.

Not wanting to see what's looking at us when we're not there.

The jigsaw of the habit fizzling into to its gap. The arbitrary shape of the moment not quite fitting in the spaces I have left.