{and everything that could not be thought}

qui sunt hi, qui ut nubes?

five clouds hang aloft in

anterooms of void [ . ] where

invariant residues inflect

what has come into blossom;

blue plumes hang over a thousand gates

punctuating distant borders.

i sit here, an aging ghost, located somewhere on the outskirts of a gray marsh // my voice of dried and brittle grasses wisps through stale, salty breezes // a blushed sensation // conjured desires // caravans of whisked clouds passing overhead // drink deeply from HER words // the Faun's nimble freedom at a distance // always at a distance