. . .

There, there remain contours against which you lean to re-enter. Immured, the interior is rounded, hair-nested, demeter.

Hard to trick perimeter by imitation, sprouting minarets or dead maidenhair — ancient cities on spine, ancient ivy on shoulders; inside there are the living, there are lichens the size of trespassers, lindens woodpecked into towers. Both sides overgrow with want and cannot, there is likeness regardless of level of life. Envy for the barrier that sees each side’s shadows, whatever respective suns leave behind.