dying is not enough: mood boards fleeing into soil

we didn’t fear the wound or the arm tasked with summoning it or those accumulating what was lost in the procession or the lecherous butcher dutifully following tradition

we did fear the inevitable stagnation of the arm the dulling of the blade the brimming cups the carnal urge of the mass achieving vague fulfillment the abandonment of ritual all together

we feared dried sheets and the inability of the hands to maintain relevancy or movement under the imagined applause of handless participants