4/22/12

Here where nothing is familiar

She slithers through a black reservoir
to land in gravity. No longer floating in muffled timbre,
clamorous insults pound and harass.
Startled by her own shrieks, she lures sleep.

Wakes, gazes, smacks
into the eyes
of a wild universe.

Days are chores—assembling colors and shapes,
tasting space. The feeling of being held,
the feeling of being let down
into the container. Adding bars to the inventory
of presence and absence.

Air is cold and dry. How to learn not to forget to breathe,
the boundaries of substance. For loss,
she creates longing, for contact, her own thumb.
Skin is next best to bathing in nectar.
She broods. How is everything
to be created from nothing?

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