-ring of the well- Fray was the name where we came to next. Might've been a place, might not've been a place but we were there, came to it sooner than we could se... Come to so soon, it was a name we stuck pins in hoping we'd stay. Stray was all we ended up with. Spar was another name we heard it went by... Rasp we also heard it was called... Came to it sooner than we could see but soon enough saw we were there. Some who'd come before us called it Bray... Sound's own principality it was, a pocket of air flexed mouthlike, meaning's mime and regret, a squib of something said, so intent it seemed. At our backs a blown conch, bamboo flute, trapic remnant, Lone Coast reconnoiter come up empty but for that, a first, forgotten warble trafficked in again even so, the mango seed's reminder sent to what end we'd eventually see... We had Come thru there before we were told. Others claiming to be us had come thru... The ubiquitous two lay bound in cloth come down from on high, hoping it so, twist of their raiment steep integument, emollient feel for what might not have been there. Head in the clouds he'd have said of himself, she'd have said elsewhere, his to be above and below, not know or say, hers to be alibi, elegy otherwise known... have said elsernrheren Above and below, limbo what fabric intervened. Limbo the bending they moved in between. Limbo the book of the bent knee... Antiphonal thread attended by thread. Keening string by thrum, inwardness, netherness... Violin strings tied their hair high, limbo the headrags they wore... The admission of cloth that it was cover, what was imminent out of reach, given what went for real, unreal, split, silhouetted redress |