every backward glance
                                   transforms the body
into a mound of salt.
It was a ritual to breathe
into paintings of paradise
till they sprung alive
                   like doors.
We rose every morning
to find the city
sprouting more wings
than flowers,
                   more smoke
than water.
When we sent our voices
                                   into the dark, they ran
back seeking asylum.
We breathed into paintings
to invoke
an unrimmed silence.