Thread a needle through the pupil. Gold leaf, taut, entranced. From one darkness to a temple. You drag the weeping deer to worship beneath the dead tree. I watch you walk slowly into the morning fog, tracing two winding trails of tears. Wind pours into the chipped curb. In this endlessly recurring performance, nothing is extraordinary.
I’ll decline the wine for now. With a steady hand I hold the stitch and pierce upward in a loop, trying to discern every birth and death with the naked eye. The candlelight dims, and I gradually understand that words only cover wounds, coating our decaying bodies in a layer of lacquer. You admire the patterns of this lacquer, gleaming with an affected, defiant silver light. This is our peculiar growth.
I don’t mind you handing me this septic moon. The end of burning incense is ash. This place has already been visited.