Here – amid the morning evaporate of crystalline frost, I press my ear to the drum of air tattooed in flames, indecipherable ink burning off pages torn from the marrow of a bone fire bawling sparks ending skyward spent and unforgiven for time too little given.
On a dirt-martyred path saturated in the long history of occupancy and erasure, I come to the forbidden garden ignoring the fading alarum hanging its bells in the frail air as I trespass.
Listening to petals settling I can’t ignore what is yet the other better flame undimmed and snaking over spread incense on long sought Indian trails blazed deep and rough into elysium where I trespass.
Now – expelled from the circle I run at time, from sol to lune, cleaving at solace and toiling at ruins until the turning of tides fills our sails – goodbye, ruin your ship! A seer once saw a sea and you and me and yes a shore with others waiting on others still.
Minarets climb toward the inverted tor assailing heights until the heights recede into lines of cloud and waves where beneath we share a room so large we cannot find memory or a window to see the moon a few hours more –
A little while more, until the done is un and bells toil and till for seasons to come.