The signal pulses a dull throb in a desert of ground bone the cathedral its spine a kind of rigging against a sky of quietly turning ochre and rust. It breathes A rumor of ghosts. The scent of lemongrass and burned hair. Once, one statue held out what might have been a hand, or a bird’s wing, charred. It held what might have been a piece of fruit, or a gear that has stopped turning. A case of contact inhibition on a scale of kilometers. No answer static rising from the ossuary.
standalone poem