| on ye hill
|
| where ye sun behind horizon hides
|
| there is nothing
|
| except our breaths
|
| and crux of events
|
| and some crux ov our hands
|
| on ye hill
|
| where shadow wings fell
|
| wind rose ye to song
|
| and we plung’d in its deep
|
| and in plaitiv waterfall depths
|
| evanescent recollection ov atavisms
|
| secret ov living in ye death posture
|
| and then…
|
| the ye seal in the garden ov dispersion
|
| closes ye mouth
|
| closes ye eyes
|
| closes ye ears
|
| in fields ov eden
|
| under ye first tree’s rotting root
|
| there’s feast
|
| typhon’s feast
|
| and night came moonless
|
| but yet ye light appear’d —
|
| picture ov sigillic angels
|
| grafting in our holy body and mind |