[22 July 2019]
The sound of wandering footsteps, the footsteps of children,
the place of rain outside of time’s swift blows
(passing without thought between one thing and the next,
unsuspended, untransacted, asking nothing but that it might become something like itself) –
the red of your lips and your blood and the gate against the
white flame of paper (ceremoniously strung between
parallel lines of certainty we had forgotten or lost faith in during a former age)
guiding lost desires back to a state of sempiternal simplicity,
conjured up from a time gone by – an arcane relic of atemporality;
the line grows thin here,
plumbing the deepnesses, wavering the shallows,
unmasking a deep-seated longing to belong somewhere safe
and whole, an icon of fragments, an offering of coffee spoons
shored up into something soft and gentle:
a place of prayer (unsanctioned and sacred),
a breath a breath and a breath,
exposed, shared, shorn, laid bare, unlocked and unguarded
passing hidden and birthing hallowed between two caving chests
while the sea rises and the moon falls and all the lights go out.
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