The Book of Weston

i receive the word from the brick

corridors of this school. the echoing

halls. blue floors polished, empty

of footprints until mine glide through.

this place moves me

into a large intersection

forking into supposed choice.

this temporary body chooses,

wordless, effortless. it descends

one hallway, only one that matters,

sliding into impending darkness,

torches whooshing past my head

on either side of this tunnel

narrowing to a point, blurring

faster and faster.

and then, the bottom: dim and cubic

brick room. i feel the weight

of fathoms pressing all around me,

insulating, protecting what?

a pool of water floats before me,

water defying brick,

and on its face, a breeze blows

a word. i watch

the letters dissolve

into dying ripples.

the water is gone, and in its place

a rose on fire, burning away, burning

into these temporary eyes, speaking

the same word as the water, a word

from the midst of the infolding flame.

the word burns through these bricks.

i feel it, i resonate in tune. it tells me

that there is more to see here. pipes

that i must crawl through. now i see

this place is a joint, not an end.

the room melts into the word.

the word is: tended,

tended.