a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
Living the dark days of the future, the architect angled for sky—a mocked- up chapel, a spire’s prismed spike: all those tiny severed rooms. Spring again’s a wash of egg casings, like chains of blonde seaweed tangled ashore: here a serifed spine, there a sundered arm. Tattered and toothy, all those braceletted blown pods, and the one still shrouded—an infant stilled in its caul. A certain economy to the dead, this minimal exertion to memory: dovecote or necropolis, the face is a winged veil, a bell cave secreting its cinerary urn, a blocked-letter name stick-crossing the grained facade like an urchin’s snapped spines, like shell fragments so aligned in sand as to appear treasure, an outsized singularity. Distinctly lightning, the sinistral shell; any whelk’s, the barbed marble crest, the nipple of ossified air topping the false nautilus swirl any cathedral’s spiraling staircase would have the eye look up to through the marred heart of spin. To sketch the shadowed steps, sun-spiked lashes halo the scepter, the shell’s mace and drill, its mute nacreless ribs. The wall filling, all those put-out pearls of window light; or vessels post storm, low tide’s finds late sun glisters, rending curtains of ash to fire that perfect gathering: the whole drowned world salted over, sparking.