Reduction awaits till eventually nothing does. Old age complete, supine you will go. The undertow that we know: the tremble, the thunder, the fallen, the wonder. Come here to me and breathe Life says, Come here and reciprocate and listen full to secrets everyone sows. Self-deception is good, a night and day turnstile always understood. A psalm that gathers and heals wounds. A film projector coughs putting face to years and soft magic with time and the months behind. And the months behind. The hours we've come to love now. As a mouth desiring song. As a source conjuring the river long. You will know this too my friend. Paid in full, pure, incandescent, in some forgotten weekend afternoon, we hedge upon daily increases till the bough saps and shrugs and our tensile selves, in twilight shadow, ceases.