A Cave.

With spangled grace your arms blacken virgin paper,

cast a liturgy upon those eyes cascading down the page;

a waterfall of mortified information that recalls a when,

a why.

The author summons a mind to a parlance

of deformities

arrayed and jostled and pressing urgently the matter

of those tumbling through gravities cup;

quarantined light calcifying to glinting stone.

The heartbeat, like an anvil.

Hammer working flat the ingots.

The walls are stained with memories.