Old alchemists gathered life,
like children born for war,
a slaughter recounted by eyes thereafter
paroxysmal shutter; god's chisel,
their hand — now
each witness, then, different angle
one, held by many, decays nevertheless
oh little friction that turns mountain to sand,
ineffable sand

The parched, catch rain's mist,
droplets pool into drink,
dressed up in foreign flavours
now —
glitching whore