In this world, there is my golden city and there is its womb being torn open and bursting... There is screaming. In it is a cold August.
She is a wild heart. She runs free. High in the mountains. Softly treading the hillside. Imprinting the sand by the ocean.
The yellowed yarrow man sat to eat my sorrow with sips of supper. The two murre eggs in his head met the nest of driftwood in the place my eyes rest.
What if that love was only fractionally given, leaving a sense memory of what is longed for but can no longer be fulfilled?