Partially reconstructed text of a poem that appeared to Christian monks who watched the unending rain above the ruins of a deluged metropolis, to which they had come to scavenge supplies. These words were all they found of value — Archivist Xn
My son, curious eyes gleaming: Thou see not an ending
Unending night and the ice cave: farewell to bones and thorns and scorn
My skin smooth and porous I made of petals from they that
Grow upon the long-dead.
I painted my eyes like hers with a wave from
The sea. My bones
I wind myself around in the manner of coral
None would blink their eyes when she stepped into a mirror, my vertical
Ocean or when I stepped out, eyes and ears shut tight
Leaned over your bed and told you silvered stories were they lies?
The animal mind floods with uncreated words: wet mortar. Magnetic bile.
Motion kissed by sight
Which knife severed thy umbilicus
A frozen lake of skin
An eye painted the color of the blood of thorns
I sound an ocean of void tied to a falling child
The mirror the iron hammer the blood the fall the
The text ends here. I am in the process of extracting more words from the boneless filter-feeders that now reside in the cracked shell of the monastery in which these words were originally transcribed
Mollusk Worship — Demersal Specimens
The House on the Forest's Edge — Porphyrous Treelimb
Nocturne — Poems
Swan's Studies — Fragments