eternal fall

in blank
remains
the splintered seed
bandaged of clogged screen
in a garden of perennial blink
where light rose once only perhaps
told in scented breaths
sold in scripts
typed by unearthed infants coiled in
blossomed tales


returning
like moth wings relentless
to drain their flight in burning faucets
kindling their fall
where past pages muddied words
in unreadable sorrows
of legless journeys entwined
with rewound film
bound to return to the calls
of the crackled strip

and the covers cement their names
and spines
the numbers now futile
and turned too cumbrous
like the song of
the tick when its hunger is silenced

the compasses spring inwards
leading a frozen voyage
the idea of the crash far less terrifying
than this