SHEPADOH. Hearken to the chime, the salt, grinding tongue on lime, the rapping of the knuckles for the fifteenth time. We enter the chamber. We keep getting higher. And quieter. And finer.
Soft motes of light, something between sand and dust. Atoms of inspiration, branching outward. Trees for thighs, and a heartbeat that starts fires. I sing the love apoplectic, swallow night air like it’s nectar. I balance and fly. I soar in real time. I’ve got your song in my soul, and a grip like tripwire.