The Anamnesis of Rust
The hour turns its glass, a sieve of ochre dust,
and the flensing light, unknotted from its mast,
bleeds into the littoral. We are not
the chrysalis, nor the scoured husk, but the tincture
that gathers on the hinge, the breath of slow corrosion.
We speak in the idiom of the unsaid, a palimpsest
of sutures and salt, where the wind’s fugue
unfolds in the catacomb of the ear.
A scansion of veins traces the map of a forgotten shore.
No cartographer’s lie, no mariner’s rote.
The tidal heart, a piston of stone,
pumps its viscid syntax through the silt.
We wear the parallax of our own decay,
the silvering of things. The rain, a broken loom,
weaves a shroud of static over the ruined bell.
It tolls for an echo, for the ghost of an integer.
Sestina for a Fractured Apparatus
Here where the logic bends to form a question,
the gears of the clockwork are caked in grease.
A filament hums its cold and lonely sermon.
The mechanism, stripped of its old purpose,
is a diagram of absence, a kind of inverse grace.
Each pivot and ratchet holds a brittle thought.
This is the thought, a rusted hinge on a door.
A kind of inverse grace defines its slow corrosion,
and its purpose, stripped of its original question,
is simply to be here, caked in the thick grease.
It turns not on the axis of a holy sermon,
but on the slow, unyielding bend of time.
So we follow the logic, the fractured hum of the sermon,
and build a new apparatus, a new thought.
The old purpose is a ghost, an unanswered question,
a splinter beneath the callus of our slow grace.
The filament hums, a memory of its purpose,
while the caked-on grease becomes a kind of time.
The inverse grace of the thing holds a new thought,
a future stripped of all its former purpose.
It asks a new question in the silent sermon,
while the grease and rust become the new time.
The filament, now free, finds a new purpose,
and the bend in the logic becomes a new grace.
The question of the clockwork, stripped of purpose,
is the cold sermon, the slow inverse grace,
the new thought that rises through the ancient grease.
The filament hums in the slow, new time,
asking a question of itself, its new purpose,
finding a new kind of inverted grace.
Let the grease harden, let the purpose wane.
The filament, a new thought, hums in the grace,
unburdened of the old, unasked question.
The sermon is spoken by the new clockwork,
and the question answered in its inverted grace,
a silence that carries through a new time
The last cartographer drew maps of silence,
etching the coastlines of a city
where the buildings wept their names
into the solvent air. The avenues
were conduits for forgotten integers,
the decimal of a sun no longer held.
Syntax is an old road, a frayed
tapestry of dust and regret,
but we walk it backwards now,
unspooling the thread of what was not.
The geometry of a forgotten bell
fractures the water. It is not
the sound that matters, but the displacement,
the ghost of a chime against
the polished surface of the unsaid.
This is the only landscape left,
a territory of negative space,
a photograph of a shadow that was never there.
The anchor's arc is an unburdened gesture,
free of the weight of a harbor.
Theorem of the Unfolded House
The house was un-papered, its angles
a theorem of hinges and regret.
We inhabited its negative,
the space where a door once was.
The scent of turpentine and a cold logic
permeated the inverse of a wall.
We did not speak of the furniture
that had gone, but of the weight
of its absence, the impression
left on the spectral floorboards.
The windows were transparencies,
refusing to frame a view.
They looked out on the inside of things,
a parallax of memory and dust.
The staircase, a helix of lost intentions,
spiraled not up or down,
but inward, a coil of rust and theory.
You could not enter, only be entered by it,
a slow osmosis of the unlived life.
We were all variations of the same blueprint,
a house built of un-making.
The Negative Space of Echo
The clock unwound its ghost, a coil of dust and soundless wire,
and in the margin of the room, a syntax of glass.
We cataloged the absence, the footprint of a forgotten thing,
the shadow that arrived before the light,
the bruise upon the water where no stone had fallen.
Consider the geometry of hunger, the parabola of a thrown bone,
and the dog that was not there to chase it.
The narrative elides itself. The memory, a moth-eaten tapestry,
unspools into the humid air,
leaving only the ghost-threads of its telling.
The word is a wound. We dress it with silence,
the white bandage of the unsaid,
and watch it weep its meaning into the pillow of night.
This is the echo before the voice, the scar before the cut.
This is the theorem of a door left ajar, for a guest who is never coming.
Sonata for a Broken Compass
The needle twitches, a neurotic finger pointing nowhere.
There are no true norths in this archipelago of regret,
only the slow dilation of the pupil, the eye adjusting
to a light that is not there.
The map was drawn by a man who was already lost,
who mistook the river’s murmur for a god’s pronouncement.
The orchestra is tuning with knives and broken spoons.
A fugue of static gathers in the eaves,
and the ghost of a cello sings a counter-melody of rust.
This is not music, but the decomposition of sound.
We are listening for a sign that was never made,
a chord that was struck before the instrument existed.
The storm arrives in a minor key, a sudden whisper of soot,
and the house remembers what it was not.
The furniture, like forgotten monoliths, stands witness
to a ritual no one can recall.
The floorboards breathe, and a splinter is born,
a small, sharp prophecy of another, deeper thrust
The Odometer's Confession
The odometer wept integers, a slow
dissolution of distance into rust.
The wind, a sieve of ochre dust,
sang the liturgy of things gone slow.
A ghost-ship anchors in the throat,
its sails stitched with the silence
of a forgotten consonant. The tide
is a metronome of a fractured grace.
The engine's rhythm is a question,
the syntax of the unsaid, a palimpsest
of sutures and salt. The rain, a broken
loom, weeps over the ruined bell.
The needle twitches, a neurotic finger,
pointing to the cartography of absence.
The map was drawn by a man already
lost, who mistook the river's whisper.
The staircase, a helix of lost intentions,
spirals not up or down but inward,
a coil of rust and theory. You cannot enter,
only be entered by its fading impression.
The windows are transparencies,
refusing to frame a view. They look out
on the inside of things, a ghost of a chime
against the polished surface of the unsaid.
This is the only landscape left,
a territory of negative space, a photograph
of a shadow that was never there.
The anchor's arc, an unburdened gesture.
The house was un-papered, its angles
a theorem of hinges and regret. We
inhabited its negative, the space
where a door once was.
The scent of turpentine and a cold logic
permeated the inverse of a wall. We
did not speak of the furniture that
had gone, but of its lingering weight.
The wind's fugue unfolds
in the catacomb of the ear. The hour
turns its glass, a sieve for the past,
a quiet tincture.
A scansion of veins traces the map
of a forgotten shore. No cartographer's
lie, no mariner's rote. The heart
pumps its viscid syntax through silt.
Here, where the logic bends to form
a question, the gears of the clockwork are
caked in grease. A filament hums its cold
and lonely sermon.
The mechanism, stripped of its old
purpose, is a diagram of absence, a kind
of inverse grace. Each pivot and ratchet
holds a brittle thought.
The ghost of a cello sings a counter-
melody of rust. This is not music, but
the decomposition of sound. We are listening
for a sign that was never made.
The orchestra is tuning with knives and
broken spoons. A fugue of static gathers
in the eaves, a coil of dust. The engine's
rhythm, a question.
The avenues were conduits for forgotten
integers, the decimal of a sun no longer
held. Syntax is an old road, a frayed
tapestry of dust and regret.
The house remembers what it was not.
The furniture, like forgotten monoliths,
stands witness to a ritual no one can
recall. The floorboards breathe.
A splinter is born, a small, sharp
prophecy of another, deeper flaw.
The storm arrives in a minor key, a sudden
whisper of soot.
The narrative elides itself. The memory,
a moth-eaten tapestry, unspools into the
humid air, leaving only the ghost-threads
of its telling.
The word is a wound. We dress it
with silence, the white bandage of the
unsaid, and watch it weep its meaning into
the pillow of night.
This is the echo before the voice, the
scar before the cut. This is the theorem
of a door left ajar, for a guest who
is never coming.
Consider the geometry of hunger, the
parabola of a thrown bone, and the dog
that was not there to chase it. A coil
of dust and soundless wire.
We count the rings inside the glass,
the strata of a light unburdened, a parallax
of memory and dust, the silvering
of what was lost.
The engine's rhythm is a question, the
syntax of the unsaid, a palimpsest of sutures
and salt. The rain, a broken loom,
weeps over the ruined bell.
The needle twitches, a neurotic finger,
pointing to the cartography of absence.
The map was drawn by a man already lost,
who mistook the river's whisper.
The staircase, a helix of lost intentions,
spirals not up or down but inward, a coil
of rust and theory. You cannot enter,
only be entered by its fading impression.
The scent of turpentine and a cold logic
permeated the inverse of a wall. We did
not speak of the furniture that had gone,
but of its lingering weight.
The geometry of a forgotten bell fractures
the water. It is not the sound, but the
displacement, that matters. The tidal heart,
a piston of stone.
The wind's fugue unfolds in the catacomb
of the ear. The hour turns its glass, a sieve
for the past, a quiet tincture. A scansion
of veins traces the map.
The ghost of a cello sings a counter-
melody of rust. This is not music, but the
decomposition of sound. We are listening
for a sign that was never made.
The orchestra is tuning with knives and
broken spoons. A fugue of static gathers
in the eaves, a coil of dust. The engine's
rhythm, a question. The last cartographer.
The house remembers what it was not.
The furniture, like forgotten monoliths,
stands witness to a ritual no one can
recall. The floorboards breathe.
A splinter is born, a small, sharp
prophecy of another, deeper flaw. The storm
arrives in a minor key, a sudden whisper
of soot. The narrative elides.
The word is a wound. We dress it with
silence, the white bandage of the unsaid,
and watch it weep its meaning into the
pillow of night. This is the echo.
We inhabit the memory of a gesture. The space
that was a door now holds a cold wind. The scent
of turpentine. The silence of a consonant.
A ghost-ship anchors in the throat.
The odometer's confession is a prayer
to entropy, a slow dissolution. The tide
is a metronome of fractured grace, and
the bell still weeps, unwound.
The floorboards breathe a language of
fractures. Each grain, a chronicle
of what was not. The house is a theorem
of regret, a ghost of its intention.
The map of silence holds a coast. A city
weeps names into the solvent air.
The unburdened light becomes a sieve.
The odometer weeps.
The clockwork hums its cold and lonely sermon.
A fractured purpose. The gear caked
in grease becomes a kind of inverse grace.
Each ratchet holds a brittle thought.
The fugue of static gathers in the eaves,
a counter-melody of rust. We listen
for the sound of the undoing. The orchestra
tunes with knives and spoons.
The shadow that arrived before the light
is cataloged. The bruise upon the water.
The word becomes a wound. The silence,
a bandage for the unsaid.
The unspooling tapestry of memory.
The ghost-threads of its telling. The decimal
of a sun no longer held. The arteries
of a forgotten integer.
The architecture of forgetting.
The building weeps its name. The tidal
heart, a piston of stone, pumps its viscid
syntax through the silt.
The last cartographer's compass
breaks. The house collapses inward.
And in the silence, the slow corrosion
speaks, an anamnesis of rust.
We count the rings inside the glass,
the strata of a light unburdened,
a parallax of memory and dust,
the silvering of what was lost.
The geometry of a forgotten bell
fractures the water. It is not the sound,
but the displacement, that matters. The tidal
heart, a piston of stone.
The last cartographer drew maps of
silence, etching the coastlines of a city
where buildings wept their names into
the solvent air.
The last cartographer drew maps of silence,
etching the coastlines of a city where the
buildings wept their names into the solvent
air. The avenues were conduits.
Here, where the logic bends to form a question,
the gears of the clockwork are caked in grease.
A filament hums its cold and lonely sermon.
The mechanism, a diagram of absence.
Consider the geometry of hunger, the
parabola of a thrown bone, and the dog
that was not there to chase it. A coil
of dust and soundless wire.
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