:::::::::::::::::::::::::CAMILLE MARTIN

the sacrifice

in the limits of our house, the familiar spirit flutters

to the last syllable, floating through our subliminal selves

like powdery climate. since our alter signifies,

we approach its vitals in a delirium and yield,

shoulder to shoulder, to an uninterrupted

and faulty void. from time to time it imagines, perceiving

our deep remembrance before the letter, the presence

of the most captivating lily, and beneath empty words

in the guise of a story-teller, keeps our chatter in practice

with lavish impossibilities. so we open the door to ourselves,

far from heroic panoramas, whispering our grains of sand

with the heaviness of each nucleus, toward an everlasting

tangle, homeless but voiced, and drop before our lost intention

soft tatters, arbitrary aches, and the sanguine trappings of ruin.


from “gists of error”