wtf pwm

from To the Chapel of Light: A Film-in-Verse

Joshua Young

dear brothers,

as we move, that line slacks across the horizon, keeps pulling at what’s left of the light. no sleek edges of sky scrapers. here, it’s all sun and reflection, or maybe gold buried in the ground. and in the distance they stand calling from rocks and water for skin and nerve static, or maybe just bodies to stitch into what’s left of the south.

all that dirt-road kick-up and follow through collects like the patter of feet gathering up a staircase. listen to the hiccup of the body’s lust for a soft spot to lay itself, and we should not answer their calls from rocks, we should not shed our clothes like shucking corn, we pull ourselves anyway, towards that choir.

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