These gargoyles can t get enough of the view stuck to their cornice, ratcheting out open-mouthed as some desert hermit on his pillar, fifth century. Such a vision, probably horrific. The gargoyles take it straight to the river over giant trees.
A kingdom. If there is a river. Ora kingdom. I walk that direction how a lock knows its key, how the key's little nicks and bites code fate: not unlatch but continue, not release but come through. Because it's ancient: there is no progress, only a deepening. Or not even that.
I heard progress is a modern invention, post bubonic plague. Right up to the airplane, the double sink and running water, earlier the milking stool, and monogamy in some places. But Dante leaped at it, his Purgatorio, thanks to before, when- wasn't it simple? Just heaven
or hell, friend. Sorry. Thumbs up or down. Perfect weather or it's endless awfulness. How does it work, this new Purgatory business, Dante didn't ask exactly but dreamt first. Fabled searing second chance lodged in the brain's ever-after
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