Habit
It’s forceful at first, pulsing
among the young. We can see
no difference between painted
children and the darker ones, save
the smoking and the elided syllables
of names. North of Missoula, a herd finds
the sacred place, guarded by shrouds.
Further along, on the other side
is where they’re taken. “This is when
I lose you.” It’s all that can be said.
The canopy lowers, and sneakers
quake against the marble. Once
we were golden and the mantle
slipped down, haunted and hot
to the touch. Bury the shortest ones,
leave the rest. The saying went -
but there was no speaking it.
From party to party as decades
amass without feeling. For a time
I grew bitter, but the now the altering
brings me an irrevocable joy.
This I know every time I board the plane:
I enjoy the scent of the dark.
