Spyglass

Roads crawl back to Rome. The rocks these days crumble in the open air. Syllables anxious with wisdoms. Birds seem still as they flock across the sentence. Only here do we get to study the beasts. Our terrible witchcraft but keep them alive. Spyglass onto the living heart, first, most exact tool: gre גר. The incision. Engraving. γραμματική. Sign carried with us. Us opened by such careful instruments of wind and sun, translucent sea-thing on the Coney Island beach I mistook for skepsis and looked through to here. There is no through. Blood curling in the open air. Old shoes crouched under the pavement like any crucifix ready to spring. The fountain splashes through any dimension you’d care to name. No place more mysterious than here.