The Year We

outlying states about them
there is always ceremony
knowing what we know
it’s a prophecy of sound
insomniacs with stenograph books
read through cracked mandibles
which are sonic organs under sea
that change our self-mapped lands
between us the closing of doors
that call to gather at tourist centers
convinced of faulty positions
even your meteorology professes
photographs of signs of the road
for trackers without communion