uncommon vernacular
ovaled through the sound of
your velvet-cushion voice ~
i slip back, slide to settle through
tactile transcendance - here in my loose fist,
loosening now full; wide and wild
and endless ~ no end or side or length
no need for a window
where there are
no walls ~ sometimes alice doesn't land
~ in some versions, the story itself
is to fall in one's self.
that is All.

~ i'm supended
by whispers, upsloped through
stillness where my memorable amnesia
lives in the now ~ cast out by
my own shadow, my form conforms across
those shallow absences which
certain hours of sunday afternoons,
leave pocking across the heart's surface.