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strange it is this knowing you
to hold onto mountains

as if the absolute carried
final truth.

you'll find me, buried beneath comets.
gasp and wonder at why misfortune
crawls up our spines. seethe and journey
within words and paintings. these reflections
seem far more real

than the vocal imaginings
within the comfort of this room.

we were foetal once, an enclosed cosmos.
burst and shatter, frail anger
at what-if's
and dreams ground
into soft grey
powder.

this taste of iron will never compare
to the drag of dandelion crowns

floating, floating:
orbs of whispered
content.

restless, restless:
a spiral figure
eight.

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