Out of that small naked, that small, very small, naked space, came a charm of feature; a charmed-feature; at a bare-brokened bough.
The wormed balm of pity, the sail being now past, now was closed in the four; closed as a door is closed when left slightly ajar. This must make. Must make; must-must make it: best. This must make it: good.
This tang? This tuft? That tuft? This curdled snare and hair? This golded sweetness so plain in the palm and plump in the midwaist.
‘Eat of us,’ said the moonlit thing.
We swallowed and the swallowing went on and on and on.
The swallowing went on for eternities. Centuries. Time zones.
The moans slid through time. Into the depths of the deadweight. Beyond the beyond and to what doesn’t compete with the dark; and what doesn’t compete with the stars.
(c) Umansky 2011