Gavriel

I speak to the angel Gavriel in the form of a rotted rowan mass, wet blackened, laced white with venous fungi, ask him about you. Your carapace of fused engravings, mangan red from bearing time's husk above your naked hips in flame and ferment both. O, Gavriel I begin, with mallards and wild turkeys puncturing the temple clearing at its boundary. Wound, the word conceived at point of sword, palate…