Midnight slumbers into an open doorway. The ambiguous terrace of the veil comes to assault your self-sense into stages of other scents. The distraction of crystal slipping into water. The knighthood of the wolf, and the candelabra, for the cherished bridesmaid of signaling devices, bewildering motors varnishing the transmutation of light into Arabic… A forgery castled by memory from a distance still to be determined, along a trajectory more tarnished than a dubious signature. A handful of bees unraveling her mouth.
March 31, 2012
Scattered Fires of the Mother-Tongue
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