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Above the Skyline

There’s something to a surface—a swell through extremities.

The particles foam up to the height of a spectacle, diagrams buckle under the heat, hands run along contours murmuring their symbols and likenesses.

Here a line promises entrances and exits, fulfillments of an impulse heralded by frequent excursions into the curve of twilight and the mulch of day.

Across this landscape of unlit temples whose holders design lips from clay, books from wax, fire from a tamed glance—is the vehicle we inhabit, teasing the horizon with a form of blur that mimics our station.

This place of mind declines with a series of tricks; comes about through them as well.