Rock Wool
Came in caring. Weeping. Shaved bare.
In the foreground, fog.
Where we’re headed, some sort of temple.
In the script, always, some form of travel.
Running: for the running, a sinew.
For the sinew, a bone.
Go in listening. Longing to speak.
There is, perhaps, nothing to communicate.
For all the fingertips in the world, a cacophony.
In all the wailing, white noise.
Battery colder than wind or the rain.
Hail capable of bruising the flesh.
For all exposure, insulation. For the noise, a filter.
For the fire, a wall.
In the cold stone, air.