Postcards

Mouldering because it felt like penance

Fragmented palimpsest of memory on fragmented depictions of landscapes that are real but untrue.

From my experience living with the rocks.

Everything both true and false and I am an unreliable narrator.

I am the worm in heaven so close to grace I could lick it off the bootheels of the blessed.

But obscurities are a hard thing to shake in the arms of acquaintances. I was frightened of my clarity–but to catch glimpses of the sky underground is to be in awe of the splendor of truth.