One thousand silvered years, with hours hoar: invisibly the time ebbs endless, untying worlds from their prehistoric anchors.
With the gravitas of the sun (which is a million miles wide, and a googol of millennia in time’s unending height) yesterday is pulled into orbit by memory, forever.
This memory is: a windblown pillar of sand cascading in echelon; hills and realms of smoking hills making fiery hologram shadows on Middle Earth.
A ciphertext secret lies behind the door of hollows. Written in cuneiform on a single thread of silk, is your paragraph of tears. I’ve unlocked your ancient grief.
I hold your thyrsi; it drips and your thirsty third eye expels a tongue longer than Rumi’s longest rumination. Your firedrake tongue catches Eden’s dew, the amber rain of heaven, an elixir in liquid mantra form.
The hanging gardens of Babylon are sanctum to the bathing beauty Bathsheba; gestating in her mound of Venus is the pearl of heavens: alchemic onanism makes time’s sand into Steinbeck’s pearl, The Pearl into a Hope diamond.
I stand on the staircase to starlit never ending; a flight of stairs with angel wings. Tomorrow beckons like wet skin lustered by moonbeams.