the truth booth

not possessed prescient hardly mad

a visceral vision I had of the womb of the world

washed in deep yellow light floating in soft, sparse perpetual night

it’s warm, it’s foggy, it’s damp when it’s late

silent steam irons hump over platitude state over involuted furrows in the earth

over grooves clipped at birth they wrinkle and rhyme as earth silently grows

shrouding their innocence and hiding their burrows under mountains split by vehement fissure

slipping through rainforests urgently growing thicker, richer

marginal beauty beleaguers central command

crucible of limestone, sulphur and sand

dunes hotly apotheosize tidal waves in disguise

we drift

we rain

we realize