a sandgrain salts the lion’s rosary, renders him wraith on an endsummer night: Monday, 2:16am, when silent reflections recoil by reflex into sovereign’sight. minky starshine phrases the air into a sanguine vexation, ’til the requiemix sets the five-year eve free by the ambiometrics of the fixture tree, an elegiac elation.
— «what meandering madness is this? to what lost language do these words belong?»
— it’s only a mnemonic, meagerly made. this one’s for solving the season’s softest songs.
— «you’ve outdone yourself on this one, Selman. surely for this you’ll be set at the tables.»
— it’s not to my nature; i’m more murals than fables. no, this city’s still my home, so i’m hoping my sigils will stand. no one becomes a prophet, you know, if he stays this long in his own land.