There is space enough in Time for ash to pile and sprawl, a personal outline, still only a shard. There is space enough in Karmic parallel identities strung together along time's slant, curvature of sequencing space, our path a fit opening within a hole of secrets. There is space enough in a shrine, a temple, Between hollow voices fading, slipping, blood rock fools, many on the path, never finding entrance to the intersection of magic: futures and ghost, loosely distributed adhesive, the facsimile of a makeshift wad of the vestigial stem, so easily dismembered by the revealing power in newfound vulnerability, chronically inclined, cathartic-ally inclined,, that cannot guess the pace from symbols. There is space enough in time, Until clearing, filtering, only as we sleep, ours. There is space enough in Dreams, but a patch through which we may track our retreat, unfolding secret knowledge as it clusters into patterns smudged by our dragons, arching high, or burrowing low. There is space enough in time to favor books as the mode by which I travel, until my eyes become accustomed. The gate I cannot find of the tandem appendaged, our pasts, our futures, occupy on a vague reality. There is space enough in time.
