Fire in the gardens. Electric light reflecting on the undersides of leaves, producing a florescent flickering of green, delicate veins silhouetted in the heavy contrast of darkness.
Someone hidden in the brush is shouting to put out the flames, and the rusted pinch of a squeaking pulley comes out of the trees, louder than the sounds of fire.
Secret wells, black water in the dark. Bucket handles passing through the palms of ghosts.
The wind moves and so does my memory of things. Images of the past disperse, bringing history to the present, all pasts entirely available, reconstituting themselves, following his hands as he raises them across his face. A masked man, no name, a presence that skims beyond the eyes of the curious in the dark, fires and waters; a man, instead, embodying all of history, a gate in an inaccessible hall, a shape of a thing named human.
Walking along a river, fire, water, red and black, damaged memory and the bickering of ghosts in the robust weeds.
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