History Is Now and England Marissa Glover Knuckles white— tight on a turning wheel, plowing across a bridge that spans four thousand years. Hands clutch a brittle clay, searching for sculptures lost to repeating winters— the potter knows his work is wrecked. The priest-king and dancing girl beckon the faithful: Ishmael has come home to Isaac. The sins of the father are visited on the sons. An overturned cart as collateral damage, cut flowers litter the street: roses, tulips, nasturtium— tansy, poppies, hyssop—lilies, hyacinth, willow. This is the death of air. Any action is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea’s throat. Watch the peepal leaves stir. Sacred bark cannot stanch the bleeding. We need the absent wind to blow.
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