This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.

Walk In

Do you remember being peregrini,
lost in borderlands that lay much closer
than we ever guessed?

Limited by the limitless and laughing
at the traces which intimate
a tree behind each word;
winding back to all the sounds
it was before, and the way we spoke them,
you and I, rooted in dark earth;
reaching up to endless sky and drawing
a few drops of sunlight to suggest
what sound cannot, what these fetters
filed into the trunk can never show.

It’s just endless streams of dazzling water
on wooden highways, if you watch carefully
for the way words crack under
the pressure of one true reader
come to find the empty centre,
before the rings of passing ages
and all the carbon copies we discarded,
each death a circle that describes
what no forest can forget.



The forest’s

Natural sounds