In the cathedral of melting clocks,
a crow unspools its cry backward,
beginning with silence
and ending in thunder.
Smoke coils into fire,
and then the match unstrikes.
Beneath violet soil,
roots whisper memories for sale,
guttural, sap-soaked syllables
traded like coins carved from
half-forgotten lullabies.
I stepped through the ether’s seam—
a doorless hinge in the breath between yawns—
into juvgwg,
where dusk is born from nightlight,
and children bury toys they haven’t lost.
The sky, a throatful of velvet static.
The stars?
Tiny eyes blinking shut,
one by one,
into unborn blaze.
A man recedes from death into laughter,
sips his tear back through a straw of bone,
his name a palindrome of longing.
He hands me a memory:
my mother’s hum,
looping in reverse,
soft as petals shattering upward
into bud.
I give him a sigh
I have yet to exhale.
Currency here glows.
It sings.
It smells like iron rain
and burning petals.
We trade for moments
we’ll someday forget,
for the luxury
of never having known.
A procession of clocks
marches into a volcano.
The ash assembles into a minute.
The minute unravels into a blink.
The blink becomes
what was never meant to happen.
In juvgwg,
we are all newborns
burying our umbilical futures
in fields of premonition.
I eat a fruit that tastes like déjà vu.
It sours
before I bite it.
Then grows again
on the branch of my desire.
Time here is
a river unspilling into a cloud,
and I float upward,
lighter with every memory
I sell to the silence
humming inside
my bones.