Apricity

hot breath blew a rare wintry word into view, Apricity.

in the warmth of a cold day, magnified by frosted glass,

cold fingering drew the brevity of solstice eve at Mission Ranch

even as the fog rolled and settled to thick tule. it was enough

for the face, for the seed jammed in the standing roof seam 

where metal meets slate. cold filaments move in the light

and gravity towards shivering saplings latticed in the cracks below.

a musty, slightly sweet smell of vanilla, everything breaking down,

bibliosmia oozed on walnut shelves and old leather-tanned.

the skin on the back of the hand, everything crumbling, leaning, 

cracking foundations, rust seeping back to mineral earth.

shaking painted void through the sieve, hope turns the hemisphere, 

false dawn shift leans in. living by our wits, the last of the homo sapiens.

shedding skin, naming quasi-moons, one turn anamorphic, 

power slips to other entities. on the vast wasteland of algorithms,

authority by the book to the last places on Earth with dark starry skies.

a forest with countless lanterns warms the heart in paradigm

and approach. eight sequences, twelve events, seventeen plot points,

twenty-two steps, forty beats, and multiple stages of a three-act structure,

the world turns in front of a dark screen waiting for a fake background.

an escape, an arcadia from the monotone grey-brown world.

the individual faded into the people. taken up to the noosphere, 

one cannot be blurred. seeds explode. in liminal space, the emptiness

at the core of desire is terrifying. standing alone in the warmth, sunlight 

crawls in rays of phosphene. welcome to the desert of the real.