Onion Sky

By | 1 December 2013

Past melts the present.
The earliest weapons were hands, nails, teeth.

A narrative of catastrophe and slow accumulation.
Bioluminescent gardens.

Wailing migration from life to death.
Railroads, birds, bison.

Memories lost, yet irrevocably found.
Can there be revelation in this?

Nothing is sudden.
All movement arrives in cataclysm.

Freight yards, waterfront silos, sugar refineries,
distilleries, the smell of malt.

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