in the palms of our hands,
on narrow roads that
twist and intersect.
in wishing well eyes,
uprooting the fibrous tunic in
our frantic pursuit.
in echoing cathedrals
where we lay our souls upon
wilting flower beds.
in brilliant garbage dumps,
piled high, distorted into
siren’s songs.
in the mountains and grasslands and
the coursing veins that run through
the dirt we were and will be.
in the folded up papers
whose true triviality is unknown
until we are weaved
back into the earth.
in the booming echoes of
our voices as we stand on
elevated hills and yell into the valleys
below.
where they cannot be found,
for they reside far beyond
existence.
Silenticel 