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Spoken version
A recorded reading of “Horizon, Unspooled”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
The panes sweat salt in the after-lunch glare— grains bead the sill, small pilgrims refusing to move. Far off, two trains unlace the day: one clatters with crates of green mangoes, sap weeping through slats; the other ferries a row of tired windows, each face a flick of late light, a kept secret, a pocketed coin. The city huffs out diesel and old rain. A boy on the bridge lifts a paper kite— thin ribs of bamboo, a wrist of string— waiting for a knife-edged gust to take it. His palms shine with glue. The river under him wears the sun like broken foil and says nothing. After the carriages pass, the rails keep singing, a low wire drawn through the afternoon. Heat blooms in the gravel; a dog loosens its bark, then swallows it. The market air tastes green— unripe mango, iron, the almost-sweet of storm. Somewhere a shutter slaps itself shut and believes it. I stand in the window’s brine and try your name. It fogs, then clears, then waits in the throat like a station without trains. The boy’s kite jumps— a cut of paper learning sky by failure— and every skid of string is a measure of distance, a small reprieve from falling. By evening the signal lamps come on, one by one. The tracks cool, but their hum keeps a room in my ribs. Between that sound and the first moths arriving, there is a narrow place where breath decides. Your name moves there, steady as a red light over water, steady as iron remembering the weight that left it.
Alternative version
The windows sweat with salt and heat, like sailors lost and turned to brine, each grain upon the sill’s retreat a stubborn pilgrim drawn by time. Two trains unwind the evening's thread— one stuffed with mangoes, green and raw, the other filled with eyes half-dead, reflections bruised by what they saw. The city's breath—a diesel sigh, a cough of rain in guttered veins— swells in the throat of a humming sky and rusts the bones beneath the trains. A boy above, with paper wings, awaits a wind both sharp and kind, his kite, a moth with cotton strings, still clings to hope it has not mined. The tracks now hush, though wheels are gone, their hums still haunt the concrete bed, a song that lingers on and on— between your name and what you said.
Lyrics
Panes sweat salt in the after-lunch glare, small grains bead the sill and refuse to move. Far off, two trains unlace the day, one with green mangoes, sap weeping the slats; the other, a row of tired windows, faces flicking with late light, kept coins of the noon. The city huffs diesel and old rain. A boy on the bridge lifts a paper kite— thin bamboo ribs, a wrist of string— waiting on a knife-edge gust to take it. His palms shine with glue; the river below wears the sun like broken foil and stays quiet. After the carriages pass, the rails keep singing, a low wire pulled through the afternoon; heat blooms in gravel; a dog starts a bark then swallows it back. Red light over water, red light over water. Your name waits in the throat, red light over water. The market air tastes green— unripe mango, iron, the almost-sweet of storm. Somewhere a shutter slaps itself shut and believes it. I stand in the window’s brine and try your name; it fogs, then clears, then stands like a station— platforms but no trains. The kite jumps hard—paper learning sky by failure— and every skid of string is distance, a small reprieve from falling, a line still holding. Red light over water, red light over water. Your name moves where breath decides— red light over water. By evening the signal lamps wake, one by one; tracks cool, but their hum keeps a room in my ribs. Between that sound and first moths arriving there’s a narrow place where breath decides. Red light over water, red light over water. Steady as iron remembering the weight that left it. Red light over water, red light over water. Steady as iron remembering the weight that left it. Red light over water.
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