arkayye
I write in the margin where the ink has already bled—
naming the river only by the sound it makes
when it forgets its source.
A gum-leaf curls into a question,
and the wind answers by flinging a bicycle bell into the ochre dusk.
arqios
Stone remembers the weight of the mason’s hand.
Even in ruin, the lintel leans toward its absent door.
I catalogue the fractures—
not to repair them—
but to keep the record honest.
Then suddenly: a rush—
rainwater tumbling through the nave like coins from a split purse.
rkay
Between the lines, a chorus of moths
beats against the lamplight—
their wings spelling a script
no archivist will claim.
They scatter,
then return in a frenzy,
as if the air itself were a page
and the ochre dust their only ink.
arquious
The map folds in on itself,
coastlines kissing in improbable reunion.
I trace the seam with a bone stylus,
feeling for the pulse of a country
that exists only when the paper is closed.
Pause—
then a burst:
the seam splits,
and the idea tumbles through my skull like a loose bullet.
crypticbard
In the last stanza,
I hide the key in a rhyme no one uses anymore.
It will take a century of misreadings
before someone sings it under their breath
and the door swings open—
ochre light spilling across the threshold
like a memory that refuses to stay still.
.