(from something)

the pages fly loose, so many dead leaves
lie silently on moss, cupping thimblefuls of the drizzly night
their words geometric veins like a root system is a tree
to the dark star of the center of the earth

reaping the fields of chance
our white, purple, and pink faces
bowed reading from the book of reproductions
this is not a coincidence

now to commit animistic sorcery
violating no rule because there are no books (not anymore)
there is only this one mind and its infinite convolutions
this one burning field of combination

do not stop speaking and where all you hear
is the sound of the wave of creation pouring, cry through the storm
while water pours into the void, crystallizing and flowing and
a cloud

trust and truth are one letter apart, crickets
sitting together by the fire at night
with only a shush between these long dead miracles
no one has seen in over ten thousand years

(to somewhere)

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