The Foretelling

The word itself is a wall made of windows and broken frames. Mind moves over a seascape, builds bridges between the waves. Now you are doing it, that thing, creating vineyards with buckets of sand. The script, the writing, it is a harvest sown by a form yet unborn. It means nothing, yet nevertheless wine pours then all antecedence, all inference returns to scratches upon a cooling mud and it is that mud, the mud on your hands that speaks.