The Prophecies of Paracelsus

That twig of light, that branch, that fork, that form. Beyond that, a city. A horse drowning in a river, and beyond that, a city. Wildfire, and beyond that, a city. God, a slippery thing, an eel, is twined from our hands. That rainy hum is the wharf, is the light that etches a bridge between pronouns, the bottle of amber formaldehyde, the infant orangutan, the wing of a gull stitched to its scapula. Here is a river drowning in a horse’s dark eye. Devitalized, humming, rainy, the feather of this gull, this small spill of light, the written thing that glues each hill to the earth, that follows a pull with its wobbly needle. God is a drowned horse fifty hands at the shoulder. To write what convinces with the impossible whisper. After that, a city. They call this floating thing an angel and hurry you out of the tent. A bear eating its own paws, and after this, a city. A window full of smoke, and after this, a city. A meter to measure day and time Adapted for that purpose by the God of our hands.