The earth is fractured this morning. A humid steam seeps from its bowels, coaxing a sweat to nectar my flesh. From the Devil’s hour, a solitary scream ripped the fabric of time, the clock in my bedroom halted, and a momentary confusion befell me, as I attempted to regain my bearings aside an indecipherable roar…falling rain or crackling fire? The misplaced scent of clover beeswax coating hammered iron answered. Bedded down atop a thin sheet, sleep was dense like the fur of a hawk moth, erratic like its flight. A dream torn at its edges, leaves behind faded faces in speech and forearms in gesture. Has a seal been opened somewhere? A release? A most gentle breeze alights my skin…a faint hint of clove on my tongue.

E.A. O'Connell. November 2018