If you south, past pull
just shy of the sunlight where
burbling light deepening
the sound from the tree,
you may have an experience you
cannot easily explain.
A rustle in your vision.
The distinct phantom
disfigured. Some danger,
because of it, the story
lived, died. In a fire
unable to find persistence.
The unnamed measure survives.
A curious ghost lists skewed.
Towards fog. Simply more belief.
Believing is seeing, a reflection
about what ought
to be happening, our own thread.
The forlorn evolving.
Layers and layers and layers
of boroughs of the invisible.
The pull of the confined,
changing houses, strengthening lore.
If she transgressed her head,
cut both ways. However long
cast out, the only avenue
the fact forever. To meet history.
To own their names.