Humic, Vyarka Kozareva

Charles Hood, Dirt



Your signet ring
Spontaneously buried in my absolution
To grow keywords
For its recusancy.
My fingers feverish
To feel its glint.
Give birth to fireflies
Over the land of promise.
Don’t ask me anything.
I can scythe the winds and find your code
Because I am herbivorous now.
The home, the scent, the cobwebs—
My late herbarium.
Symbolic on the ritual bread.
All next of kin
Will change my garb in black
While telling lies.
Entrapped, I heard them saying:
Be specular at our Sunday dinner—
Chants stuffed in quails.

Vyarka Kozareva

Scroll to Top