I
The leaves run
from the wind. Whosoever shall breathe
coal that their lungs should solder their lips shut. Soldiers still smoldering, and tender touches
that break at will so sudden. That day
birds learned to pass through windows as they couldn’t stand the wind in the
wells — this is what the villagers refer to as the song of the angels — and,
the knell sounded upon the rifle finding its mark. Only then the ocean lends itself and builds
cathedrals beneath my skin. The
apocryphal stories their stained glass windows tell. Where contrails bind the east eidolon hills
recede. Set out under amber cupolas to
find that infinity that fits best.
II
Of those whose
bones turned to nothing after burnishing the marble for so long it sublimated
back into fog — what remains attests to our solitude. And the crickets’ serrated wings perform
their autopsy nightly — fans the hearth and consumes all that was left behind
acoustical sails ad infinitum.
