In morning daze, the Sun entombed its sister body to northwest rest, laying upon it the death of renewal. Like the migrant tentshow whose trail descends the rabid road with little to no history, the Moon spoke its lamentation and left in the instant of Saint Origen’s castration, the swift strike at nine where time prays for recognition against origin. In naive consciousness the man spent his time on the wristwatch clock kneeling to numeracy in the farmhouse. The chickens were fed by the ounce, the horses moved into stables numbered in excavated order, so it seemed, and the cows grazed in ordinate chaos bound by the area of the square. The geometry sufficed the man’s laborious, restless, and ordered work. And so, like that pole Numbakula used to colonize the dead-souls of wardenless pasture, the Sun rose into a bloom of china sky full of propriety, the man the same as the Father.
Further Work in Progress
phoenixswriting 