LIES/ISLE  

  FROM A WORK TOWARD A PSYCHIC LANDSCAPE OF THE ABSENCE OF/FROM A CITY DESTROYED BY AN EARTHQUAKE AND BLED DRY IN THE FACE OF DEATH AND THE SIMULTANEOUS PRESENCE AND ABSENCE OF MEMORY  






ONE DAY HEAVEN IS BLED DRY.
A FALLEN CATHEDRAL IN THE DESERT SOMEWHERE.
HEAVEN IS BESIEGED
BY UNARMED MEN.
THEY BEAT AT THE GATES WITH THEIR FISTS.
BONE CRACKS,
BONE TURNS TO POWDER.
THE STREETS ARE DUST.
THERE IS ONLY DUST WHICH REMAINS.
COVERING EVERYTHING OVER.
A FINE POWDER, A FINE MIST.
MY FAITH HAS FALLEN TO ITS KNEES.
MY FAITH HAS SUNKEN INTO THE PIT.
MY FAITH CANNOT PLACE STONE ON STONE,
CANNOT MIX MORTAR.
MY FAITH IS CHOKING IN THE DUST.
ALL IS DUST,
ALL RETURNS,
ALL IS COVERED OVER.
THE CATHEDRAL TURNS TO DRY AIR,
BLEEDS AWAY INTO THE LOW TWILIGHT.
AM STANDING BY THE LAKE.
THE WATER IS NOT WATER.
THE WATER IS SAND.
IT IS HANDS CLASPED ACROSS THE BREAST-BONE.
A CLOSE PALMING TO THE DESERT AIR.
A QUIET PLACE.
INSIDE THE STITCHES INSIDE THE NEEDLEWORK.
THIS IS RUINS.
A THREADING OF DUNES.
I RUN THROUGH THE NIGHT VISION.
I REMEMBER.
IT WAS TIME, TIME FOR.
THIS SPLITTING HAIR OF PASSAGE.

IT SEEMS LIKE HOURS. IT SEEMS LIKE DAYS. IT SEEMS LIKE MONTHS. IT SEEMS LIKE YEARS. IT SEEMS LIKE DECADES. IT SEEMS, SOMEHOW, INTERMINABLE.

TIME PASSES.
AGAIN MOVING
REBORN IN CLUMPS OF ASH AND SAND
A HUNDRED HUNDRED TIMES
IN THE PASSING OF TIME IN WHICH
AN EYE CLOSES
THEN AGAIN OPENS
ON A WORLD CHANGED FOREVER
RAVAGED BY FIRE
AND THEN COLD ONCE MORE.






  ROSS S╔LAVY BRIGHTON