at four into dust soil, seemed.

heedless and whirling beneath a cold blue ever after

motions towards an inner earth as we are flung farther into space

bright and endless with a quivering dark,

unwilling to leave the least of it, the minor

crescendos of delirium, blinking and without sight

all sea before us and not the loamy land to level

lamentations, precious without the cards of fate to feed

the drowned men in their moldy vessels

flesh and otherwise.

 

the urgency of some simple thought, the

necessity of the cold glass in hand, remembering how we held

the cold glasses in our

hands.

hands that reach, languid and tremulous over years of concrete

footings, groping at dry marsh, fleeting over sisps of stalks and chaff, crumbled

senses of perfumed lands, reeking now of smoke and

char, sucking at hollowed cheeks and bare

sun-bleached bones, small rib cages in which organs

were once suspended.

eating a hunger as clouds gnaw at the emptiness of the sky

vast and inconsolable for its loneliness, a leviathan creeping behind

the arc of the breath above, the dome of our searing burning hovel.

 

fire saws and gutters in the winds that call

the ashen air home

again.

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