I’ve read somewhere – a prophet spentforty days in the wilderness.
A pair of brothers were absent
for fourteen years more or less.
In strange, nested mythologies,
passages marked in sands and wars.
And in here-n-now territories
time buckles under tormentors.
I heard the empty vessels wreck
my world, too close their keels and teeth.
Saw too, a knee pressed on a neck
and shut my eyes, forgot to breathe.
The mills, I’ve heard, grind small but slow –
how many more aeons to go?