A tangent across day. A tooth, a pointed tooth. Setting against the creased loaf of olive skies. A finger slips into the thread of dusk and reaffirms its own existence. A moment escapes and the tender pockets of clouds roam in the mouth. Rudiments and ash. Nothing is quite as spectacular, as beautiful as that which has ceased to exist. That which roams neither in memory nor along the eye but traverses into the unknown, the uncertain joy that sweetens the corners of the dreaming mouth.
An unnamable leaf twirling, the continuous passage of time across bones, across flesh, across eye. A day conveniently forgotten, carelessly strewn, a day, now nowhere to be found, neither desired not abandoned, a day curling around the round ear, the listless flute of being.