The gradual accrual of indefinable elements. Takes on the form of a muttering under the dusts that have settled in the tiny apotheosis you wear on your hip. Somewhat smaller than a sidearm. But agreeably different. The last tatters of summer’s cloak as it gets dragged across the threshold. Little pieces of the world weighing it down. But giving it a certain purpose. First conceived of during secret meetings held in rooms lit by the glow of centipedes. Then chiseled into fifteen-second promotional spots for a hot new series that will never air. A story about this written on a chewing gum wrapper that was wadded into a ball and flushed down the toilet. The body couldn’t be a temple really. Or an amusement park for that matter. We get stuck at the top of the Ferris Wheel. This is not an allegory. This is the owl who reeks of mouse carcasses. Whose eyes are lamps that never burn but never burn out. The key you gave her to open such things. In your other hand the plant whose sap is beaten like tin into plates that stop the silver darts of the moon from entering your heart and impregnating the piece of coal that burns but always burns out.