#19

Context for the faithful, so much apocrapha cluttering closet space. The heretical bell. The green bandana of one's past Narcissus. Wood charmed by quiet hands. The author's mark in books. Solar art for the dearly departed. And photographs - all of them blasphemy.

Time's offence. Partitioned, fields and cuttings. Different routes on maps hand-drawn. Un-enfoldings in contiguity. Apocrapha: a bazaar beyond the fence where stories are as purchased from their swindlers. Fairy tunes careening round yesteryead. Silver whistles, silver poets. Memory drank in jugs under sun. Children braised in blue-bell bowls of synesthesia.

The sex of every false moon will flee our visions. We who walk brambled paths through woods half-dead to homes of doors in clearings. Free spirits ensuite who commune in graveyards. Pens to flame. Or eyes to print. A petal plucked for nesting. And when the pagan for the whole, and when the lender for his own... We will count their souls on string. We will sing at each and every rending.