Yellow fever of decay; a protean sensation;
the latency of division we floated up from,
through layers of clay and mud to an
aqueous rest. Our history remains kinetic,
buried. Our ascension, the forgotten path
into the voice of the past. Fossil matter. Heavy
particles heralding the time of chaos, more simple.
Their transitory, brief existence spins the compass
points, cardinal directions, cardinal's bones, magic
of gravity, back into the folding heat of insistence.
Small bird bones shine on the table, the oak table,
beside a large map. The places we lay our tired
beliefs glow in the persistent photon bath. It is
day, morning, the windows are closed.
We've dragged our mass to the fire
to get the soak out from our bones.
