(via whit*hous*history dot org)


(Wasting too many hours at L*tsPlayCh*ss dot com...should blog!)


Qiu Xiaolong.


    "Ten-feet-straight-down Sutra

   No more of ghosts
whose svelte sweat-lacquered limbs the firelight toasts;
no more of ghosts, amour of hosts & shattered
will. Be mild to me as if it mattered.
The ill woodwind, that no one blows good,
takes up the theme: queming, an oboe's way.
No more of ghosts' whispers, soughing among sough
or candle drawn longer, up, a dream of flight.
We are all still. We beside absorb
& give back nothing like the orc maw of death.
Pride of lions, light of prunes, I taste your breath.
Sonorous silence, close--closer than sound
is no more ghosts; ostioles all shuttered up.

I suspend a word for you back home where I am not.
I work as swiftly & unerringly as God."

--Lydia Plaidy, ibid


Mim* Ministry. (via R*b*cca Blood)