I I.
On the ziggurat’s last molar,
a wingèd auditor of dusk
unbuttons the sky with a glance.
His codex is not written—
it is *excavated*,
a vein of phosphor
tapped from the marrow of eclipses.
II.
Feathers: pale scalpels
that once dissected silence
and stitched it back wrong.
They do not beat—
they *rehearse* the absence of wind
until the wind forgets its own mouth.
III.
The tower is a vertebra
snapped from the spine of a god
who mistook height for mercy.
Its stones sweat altitude;
each drop a small, blind prophet
crawling toward the edge
to leap.
IV.
His hair is the color of frostbite
on a tongue that spoke the first lie.
Eyes: two black moons
where tides of unmade worlds
still pull.
He reads the *lacunae*—
the gaps where letters
were too ashamed to appear.
lV.
Below, a city exhales
its last alphabet into the dark.
The smoke climbs like a question
no one remembers asking.
The angel inhales it—
a lungful of endings
distilled into one
slow
breath.
VI.
Turn the page:
a millennium folds like a tongue
against the roof of forever.
The sound is not paper—
it is the *crack* of a hinge
in the jaw of a gate
that opens only inward.
VII.
He is the *ellipsis*
between the last word
and the first silence.
His shadow is a codex
buried face-down,
its pages sprouting roots
that drink from the dark
between stars.
VIII.
No name.
Only the *thrum*
where a heartbeat
learns to read
in the language of *unstruck bells*—
each toll a small, white wound
in the fabric of what
was never
meant
to be.
On the ziggurat’s last molar,
a wingèd auditor of dusk
unbuttons the sky with a glance.
His codex is not written—
it is *excavated*,
a vein of phosphor
tapped from the marrow of eclipses.
II.
Feathers: pale scalpels
that once dissected silence
and stitched it back wrong.
They do not beat—
they *rehearse* the absence of wind
until the wind forgets its own mouth.
III.
The tower is a vertebra
snapped from the spine of a god
who mistook height for mercy.
Its stones sweat altitude;
each drop a small, blind prophet
crawling toward the edge
to leap.
IV.
His hair is the color of frostbite
on a tongue that spoke the first lie.
Eyes: two black moons
where tides of unmade worlds
still pull.
He reads the *lacunae*—
the gaps where letters
were too ashamed to appear.
lV.
Below, a city exhales
its last alphabet into the dark.
The smoke climbs like a question
no one remembers asking.
The angel inhales it—
a lungful of endings
distilled into one
slow
breath.
VI.
Turn the page:
a millennium folds like a tongue
against the roof of forever.
The sound is not paper—
it is the *crack* of a hinge
in the jaw of a gate
that opens only inward.
VII.
He is the *ellipsis*
between the last word
and the first silence.
His shadow is a codex
buried face-down,
its pages sprouting roots
that drink from the dark
between stars.
VIII.
No name.
Only the *thrum*
where a heartbeat
learns to read
in the language of *unstruck bells*—
each toll a small, white wound
in the fabric of what
was never
meant
to be.
The Sunday Circle