down down down inside there is a silent speech
you sense it with your fingers as they absent-mindedly clasp
the empty space between your palms
a holding on to something that never was
the words are unlike these, and your eyes cannot fix them
into harsh dualities of coincidence
cannot shatter their glass frames
and spill them into false awakening,
for they are too alive with movement and carelessness
too bursting with their own unconscious
to be forgotten by your recognition
swayed no longer by pointed barbs of attention
you slip unknowingly into the place you always were already
the lemniscatory pulsing of the arteries
a sonata played on your inner organs
frayed concepts dissolving in your living words
like salt into the warm liquid of time
no longer obeying your self-congratulatory epistemology
nor your heroically reflective meta-stases
by which of course we can only mean

but you know what I mean
because you read now with your fingers, your breath
your earlobes and your wings
the sleepless ones are here
joyous in your sleep
sowers of your dreamless dreams
singers of your wordless words


Comments are closed.