Lethusia

The originary teeth of any common lighthouse are heroic. The vectors of understory, like the opposites of lamps, sieve lightnings from the edited daughters whose furies are, indeed, all of these animals.

The spectral bones of ripped occlusions, torn there as if the sun’s elect cartoons from wrecks and wonders named arose. Before the names were worn, the jagged dead, how they were shorn, and all the dread such libraries do and shall inspire.

O endless calendars of impeccably sanitized incisions.

Nonetheless, the teeth of it come through as mists and fogs eject them whole, from space. Bloody and speechless, from intervals of purity transcended and erased. Where light and shattered clocks conspired, the furies wrought, the angels fired, from intervals of names before the cruel fierceness of their flame. The edits of such daughters, how they shatter at the waters, where a certain fellow sings to birds that warp and slip their wings, in between the storied pages to the marrow of the ages.

O ceaseless labyrinths of nodes and tails, o factious lethusia of any finger’s recent races.

In lamps and light, the teeth of mists.