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I’ve read somewhere – a prophet
spent
forty 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?
