a bench sat on by nobody, but the mist

Evening is neither leaving
nor becoming, believing day neither 

seeing nor night dreaming of deceiving.

You seem to only grasp at wrung halves

when shone fat on by the aloe moon,

you run to find stone meaning

less than what could be imagined 

behind your senseless eyes’ surprise feeling:   

reasoning, is not what brings season to pass,

it’s a euthanizing clasp, an idea glanced 

to stone. not breath anymore but word shards

behind the lives of a glass-blower’s cast, 

imagination’s sand seer of silent sirens 

left like accents clung to the moods in dunes 

of existence. In this and in that in this, flits

a patient painter who feels the centre soul

as its porous ceiling. He says release

perceiving outward what is not within

our umbilical convex, and let us in ourselves be

red less dust undressed by the addressee-irreality, 

a bee hung weightless in wing beating thought.

let us forget doors and their habit of running

away, and summon of ourselves our own 

opening to shadeless effluence 

it is not what’s out there but what is here within

what you touch, and never know to be there,

to hear in the flit of blind air, the stare

of a century asleep 

to the unanswerable conundrum of its heart

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