the beginning is overrated, and the end overlooked
locate our volume in the library of all things, find your sentence in it, and it will become clear: the story we are a part of does not lower itself to such clichés
the land was scraped blank by mountains of ice ten thousand years long, and the world began anew.
rivers fed by the meltwater found the level of the geography. subglacial currents met light, and thus ensued the holocene.
what we know of the glaciers—what we know of anything at all—are the scraps and scars left behind.
holocene scar tissue marbles my flesh—
inscribed within me
are maps of the world in its unbecoming—
maps,
and mazes—
the trails left behind
by the pilgrimage of things for which there is no return
