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



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



humming like a breast,

watching two or three bodies

catch against each other

and burn



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,


what would it be like to love at all