As long as we stay in touch, I will be able to fill you in with the specifics. Turn towards Fence Needle and the dried-out bridge. See, the rivulet dividing moorland stops.
A silence has set in. Everything clings and gets stuck on the documented remains and pauses of our encounters. As familiar as it was – it is excessively mottled with greed – futile to cross. Oblivion feasts on the ring of our languages. We assume this to be perpetual. Nevertheless, we are inexhaustible, each of us is already a congregation. – J. Bugloss Joyweed
The multitudes of annihilated things breathing, recuperating. Processes of aches and scabbing gaining consciousness back. Through scorched bark but still walking. The survival of all the sleek slides and collaborators. Soaring in cream pillows. Curls and speckles of primitive life etched repetitiously. Gold- coated stainless echo chambers. Insoluble, energy storages coagulating. Space time markers, arrow distance isolates.
Mock–Cypress, while stroking Lilly Fence: GOATKIN LILIPUT ALONG THE GRAIN AND WOOSH YOU DON’T WANT ME STAY GRAFTED WILTED DUMBSTRUCK WHEAT HEATHOLE DIG DOCK DEEPER CRADLE CAPPED CRUSTY CUNTS SCORN SHUN THOSE SODDING INBRED STRIDERS
The sand-sized thoughts prod and cramp life. Bodies decelerate and tingle. Hedges, bushes, ponds and orchards endure. Sequester it. They leap forward with a snickering grin across the reflections of stems, shafts and spores, pit stops and inventories.
A year can hold any number of seasons. Everything is alive as a warm foggy dew, intensely resinous, sickly-sweet.