Branches nod their assent, the leaves ambivalent. What if you find yourself in a marble statue or a tile or a Grecian urn? The ink isn’t even dry yet, but you are.
But then again, here is proof of existence. Ashes and bone living side by side, blurred borders loitering freely. Is this ecumenical justice or just poetry?
What is the smell of eternity? A sea breeze punches me in the face and I am smitten by its transparent ardor. Memory falls off its hinges and gets trampled by stampeding pachyderms.
This mud is slippery and abundant; it is like cement. I am reborn, occiput anterior, an ostrich doing its job. What flutters at the limit of this chaos but a fleshy return to an idea?