in parentheses

Where roots spread into oblivions, there I am recording the lines of ghosts, drawing their names to bring a dawn to their faces again, ripped from dream and so scared of the loneliness of hands and feet, and the one body which connects all and yet lets the mind and eyes runaway to lonelier places still, where the body of the earth seems to rise just to crash all the history of one upon, and cities and shadows and faces and bodies smoking in the cold and drowning in the warm of a place made to be forgotten, when under the dark arc of the moon a page turns and the world does shake away into colossi of stone and shivurring gas, curling to the spectres of birth