the glue makers’ guild
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they labor in sweating cells in midnight under the city they glide cowled past each other their eyes never meet - each hugs the stain of his own recipe to the roiling scars of his body no talk in the catacombs just the stink and boil of a thousand cauldrons the glue makers draw on under-cloak ingredients won in appalling ways for hours they stir and test and stir again when the fire banks itself when the hot ferment of the pot stills to a fretful murmur the glue makers anoint themselves with care and blazing eyes they don borrowed smiles and move up into the daylight to hunt with deadly purpose the clean of limb the sound of sleep the laughing by Nic Sebastian |