A bead of sweat in the palm of a hand suspended by a spectral arm of this unconscious galaxy * A bead of sweat no greater than a seed adrift in no man’s farm— though who could conceive of darker soil? * Have faith that to endure the cold is to be spared a temperature at which this drop would swelter, boil * Yet why would fate distil his crystal ball in a pearl of saline flush with blood and pigment
this is a near-perfect, visceral line, contains a whole world -
A bead of sweat no greater than/
a seed adrift in no man’s farm—
thank you claire, I definitely lucked out when that image came to me
So lovely; it makes the “shrine to thirst” feel closer, more immediate to the heart.
🙏
This is very lovely Huck, it brings to mind alchemical processes like sublimation and the refinement of being as the words land. Oh, the journeys!
thank you ana, well said!