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”
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