Unbroken Patterns

Twinkling, thistle and brogue, I am belly up in the waveforms – you must know this, you of elegant deer feathers and casual commentary, ill-advised analysis and sudden paragraph breaks in stunning métier. A crack of the knuckles and a whip of the chain, or chain of whip, or whip of chains; I grab the reins. Rain? No, it snows, but only sometimes see, because the other times it’s hard ice – you could skate over its rough patches on the smooth tarmac, I don’t know why people wear shoes without tread in winter. Do they want their feet soaking? Do they want a public embarrassment? So many years old and we can still find it funny that someone loses their balance and right of way. Worlds fall out of place for a moment and I’m singing again of bumblebee mouths in deep reverb and echoing harmonics. Snuck in among familiar figures, efficient shadows, one corner with curbing after another. Brief glimpses of the way it was supposed to be. You wink, I nudge, and we’re back to the small hours. How did that happen? Ah, but you’ve already pulled the pin and placed the piece: We are playing that game again.