petrichor

to say a famine is made whole from a theory of abundance, a twister of souls, i was at the discotheque purging this latitude for coloured lights. reins, cloudscape, rainfalls, dewdrops & the remnants of the fire called down by Elijah. burning through the sacrifices, ruining bodies into an incense raised above heaven. the children beneath these clouds clotted their souls an embankment to life, swift into reciting this epistles into chapters of burnings, a notebook of conflagration passed down through a pontifex of faceless descendants. I too was there, not enough to miracle these stones for bread. I saw through the same piercing for years until there was no voice matching it reverberation. it’s nothing new. it the simplest mechanism for disappearing, to walk past this burnt house without encountering the faces that once domiciled in it. dittany, an elderly praying himself into alms, plates heavy from stone in carrying self, a linage uplifts their souls in rhapsody. I spoke in little tongues & bodies outgrew the flood. forgot how best this forgetfulness remembered not to drown, it’s always a miracle, that death has never ripped us off our clothes.