Within systems that have never heard the breath of human voices, or had strung their disturbed and broken words upon them. The hunting ground for the men with hawk headed bowls, and women of mist, of salt, of bone and angels.
Caverns in time.
I cannot dream of them, in patterns as vivid as the fiery sun, I am still at a loss to estimate their approximations, or encumber their merest concepts with but a billowing veil of an idea.
Mine, mind, is in the air, even on the days as today, wretched rain flooding runnels of the buildings guttered swords, sluicing treacle undulant. Grey filthy unguent, folds like hair, in transparent vessels linking the roads to the library, to hearts, a flower, sunshines’ corners and dark snow.
Breathe the filter aside, breathe the soft muslin sheet, breathe all of what you have inhaled into this structure of light, and love and burn the delicate skin to it’s filigrees.
Uproot, unearth, tendrils as fine as the fading light, afterthought of chalk blown across the lens.
Grave my thoughts, tender years pave them in roots and roses.
Un-become, ghost or love and everything that happiness isn’t but tries to say.
I am an orbiting star, where you are the universe, I am the claws where you are the crow.
I am alive in the death of my life.