What becomes us is not religious. At four thirty the birds begin singing. A little light to call one's own. A softness I do not recognize.
Monadic. What we are must give consent to its conversion. We are unified and yet diverse. This hunger that can only be explained in terms of bluets.
A crisis, a crossing. Was it all in the end a performance? Noteworthy spellcasters. Days later I find myself still taking notes, unable to produce coherent paragraphs.
Piety, porphyry. How quickly one is consumed once one no longer fears the flames. Walking to where we fish, not talking. Something absent vs. something that cannot be named.
Growing old under the hemlocks, happy in ways that were once considered illegitimate. Sparks ascending, the stars choraling. Never allow rhyme to take you away from what you know to be true. Bland kisses, forgotten rivers.
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