the air swam a little different in the days following the fire as though held in a state of impassioned disbelief an imposed shock or awe – in breath not quite lost but caught – by oils, and the scene of now blackened embers, charred brick beams of the roof…

. a distant memory of when there were scents of bloom frequencies of unfurling unknowing yearning sensing across hills and hollows our childhood corroded the mournful call of the house over glaciers of youth and whispers tears alloyed by the hands of time you see us in the archive footprints…