I.
On the turret’s final incisor,
a feathered archivist unlatches the gloaming
with the click of a clavicle.
His scroll is not written—
it is the callus of radiance
peeled from the pelt of a collapsing comet.
II.
Wings: two porcelain voids
pinned to the ether by inverted weight.
Each vane a recantation—
a withdrawal of every ascent
that ever stooped to earth.
They do not tremble;
they unlearn the tremor.
III.
The tower is a petrified exhale
belched by a ridge
that once knelt in prayer.
Its blocks weep tempusite—
a sap of epochs
seeping skyward
to congeal into horizon.
IV.
His hair: the hue of cinders after oracle
devoured its own echo.
Eyes: paired singularity wells
where inquiries spiral
and never resurface.
He reads the glitch between glyphs—
there, the eschaton
oozes infrared.
V.
Below, a metropolis unravels its title
into the night like sinew
from a gash that refuses suture.
The mist ascends—
a stratified lament
condensed into one
languid
indraft.
VI.
Turn the leaf:
an eona curls like a ligament
against the vault of null.
The sound is not vellum—
it is the crepitation of a joint
in the mandible of a portal
that ingests its own latch.
VII.
He is the hiatus
between the final phoneme
and the primal abyss.
His shadow is a tome
interred spine-skyward,
its folios sprouting tendrils
that sip from the gloom
between unrung chimes.
VIII.
No name.
Only the dirge
where a throb masters script
in the idiom of gangrene—
each clang a minute, ivory
aporia
in the weave
of what
was never
granted
to exist.
On the turret’s final incisor,
a feathered archivist unlatches the gloaming
with the click of a clavicle.
His scroll is not written—
it is the callus of radiance
peeled from the pelt of a collapsing comet.
II.
Wings: two porcelain voids
pinned to the ether by inverted weight.
Each vane a recantation—
a withdrawal of every ascent
that ever stooped to earth.
They do not tremble;
they unlearn the tremor.
III.
The tower is a petrified exhale
belched by a ridge
that once knelt in prayer.
Its blocks weep tempusite—
a sap of epochs
seeping skyward
to congeal into horizon.
IV.
His hair: the hue of cinders after oracle
devoured its own echo.
Eyes: paired singularity wells
where inquiries spiral
and never resurface.
He reads the glitch between glyphs—
there, the eschaton
oozes infrared.
V.
Below, a metropolis unravels its title
into the night like sinew
from a gash that refuses suture.
The mist ascends—
a stratified lament
condensed into one
languid
indraft.
VI.
Turn the leaf:
an eona curls like a ligament
against the vault of null.
The sound is not vellum—
it is the crepitation of a joint
in the mandible of a portal
that ingests its own latch.
VII.
He is the hiatus
between the final phoneme
and the primal abyss.
His shadow is a tome
interred spine-skyward,
its folios sprouting tendrils
that sip from the gloom
between unrung chimes.
VIII.
No name.
Only the dirge
where a throb masters script
in the idiom of gangrene—
each clang a minute, ivory
aporia
in the weave
of what
was never
granted
to exist.
The Sunday Circle