Phenomenon Born

So immaculate and still are the forever rebounding grain that is thrown from the heavens’ sleeve

They closet a bent road that slides under a transparent silver sheet

A hermit wind that has traveled across mountain precipices, and caverns within hillsides

Has found its superlative

The glass sailcloth began to open its three-cornered mouth

And invited the aching hermit in

The tall kerosene lamp figure’s flame trickled and smoothed in response to the intruding wind

The bright burn had almost rotated as if the lamp watched the wind send between the sunken hall and against the candelabrum

The lamp looked back to where the wind came

It walked like a burning statue raising its arms and hands as if not to burn itself

A feeling made of intricate texture similar to an oriental doorframe began to distend within every wooden crevice in the room once the hermit began to speak

An appearance like the stones of water it came from and with nothing around it like a tunnel that was once a rough shape of a body is the only description fit for the spirit air

With a voice that sounds overturned and laid flat on a shore

One smoking vine-like finger curling and reaching was lifted

Some gift it asked for, a gift from the window frame

Three-cornered mouth, then four, then seven

A gift that began to be birthed from the covert white horizon, through the thin passage

Pouch of golden wax the size of an ear

Clouded and untrue

Mouth corners lengthened and multiplied as the gift grew rounder like a ball newel

The brushing lamp eye shut and sibilated

The father, covered in soot-of-clouds arrived through the windows son

Fish knife bound to his indistinct hand

The proud yellow growth now hanging against the crowned glass wall

Stepped pressingly through the winds traveler

He felt no burden but he did feel the waving strands the hermit was made of

Was the glass giver alive at all?

Some apparitions unearthly way of provocation?

With no lamplight, it was only lit by the paling sky

Only yellow enough to tell what it was, out from nowhere

Was this gift his, was it alive?

Would the ghost perish if he were to open this gift, was it alive at all when it first blew across the lands

The hermit began to twirl in its indignation, filling the room with fog which pounded the delicate walls

Growing, becoming more of an illusion to himself but ever maturing into something he could not see

The swollen parcel was under the listless shelter of a living being

Would it stay living

Collapse at the window and he will show the thickening horizon the birth of a gift