all lips rehearsed
my cups fill ready
in ripples reverse
conversing ja z z
, windowed in pla i d
no chaser, pin straigh
quill tumbled saints—
cold in cool late
oh conscious of mi n e.
my words ache and could not squeeze
the life bread of pumice and maximatic
i am not through laces strung up
under a little winter holly
the sense of those tiny particles
penetrating your endless space — cannot you feel how exhaust
i inhale the nothing noths
still, utterly, soundless and mundane.
left hollow in rot
i eye the i’s that am.
I am the I that is but a mere illusion of my consciousness. The tops and depths of earthbound beings are nothing but warps in space-time.