Culture | Inkwell

Origin Stories

From the last wane and shouts of my influence

I made my loss a shadow

but one of weight—

 

a newspaper park blanket that I could draw up to my chin

to hide me from the arching eyes of streetlights

 

and though true it keeps me warm it reads itself to me

incessant

 

I hear it far away but I know it has a force

Like an impossibly loud horn sounding at the very bottom of a well

 

 

And if only I could draw it up

 

it would surely say that Seraphim felt fit to fall to filthy streets and burn

and wait

and animate

 

pleading,

humming like a breast,

watching two or three bodies

catch against each other

and burn

engorged—

pleading,

that enough of it

might diffuse

back upwards

 

Two or three beds

not warm but

unthinkably bright, hot

 

and we, a fraternity of ghosts,

staring skywards apologizing

to incredible frightening unseen expanses,

wondering

what would it be like to love at all

 


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