. . . . .

Deterioration gathers witnesses — in a field, into a narrowing path towards. A hole where their rings dissolve, froth of planets, milk of earth. Into this the increasingly plural toss hidden names, scouring the circumference of all maggots and demons. Conic, the incantation fits the depression in dimension and incline, reaching nothing: the pit vacant when its inhabitants burst into memories, incense, withheld gestures — spores to people nearby worlds.

I myself wasn’t present, though we shared halluci- nations at the intersection of gazes thrown by craning. Haunted structures, the cellars of the callers by the sap of the called.