This is sootfall, and a freefall too down from inky space, a
wash of prussian and ochre, the swift hours’ handprints visible and then gone.
You are a flush of light. You are night and the days piling
up behind, a wake of ashes and stars.
You are a slow flow and tumble; you are the raven’s call,
and the deep bassoon thrum of the dark’s waterfall, the staircase between
worlds.
A flurry of embers. A smudge on the cool air. Fingerprint in
space. The human race speeding up. Slipstream. Your own heart thrust into
blossom.
~ Roselle Angwin, from Bardo
