four stories blink in rolling fog
something of a mouth and tongue;
dim mornings buried where they cannot be seen
sweep complacently. dust along floorboards is
what the light becomes, particles and mass
losing a framework for existence.
no more fingerprints on a keyboard. clearing caches
find me wrong again and again.
pupils with no trace, beads of liquid stacking along
gossamer filaments webbing among straws.
no cleanliness assumes me here. these boxes are
so small. another evening passes
condensation over rooftops and i am hiding.
collections of metaphors with no home,
memories spreading into ben-day dots are
growing wider, the space between sinks deeper
seeking to dissolve. what has this larynx commanded?
what have these fingers done?
our matter is spreading apart, meditative calm urges
bedroom spaces to reach
expand
backward with no sound.