I look into the small mirror, mouth three or four words, and then meet a particular silence. Vacuum passage. Cotton quiet. Skinless bubble. These unvoiced pairings fluff, inane, where the many nothings go - in a gap just off of crescendo’s peak. Dimensions here are explicit and absent. They contain want without action, a dry impulse to cry, eyes widened into two white flares, reflexes anticipating a jolt but met with stillness.
How did I find this place?
By intention or accident? Before or after? Am I here or curtailed, wiped away in a smudge of half thought? Who can I talk to? Why does substance less than air continues its piling on? How could I describe little more than scratches left by the cross up of these used-to-bes and wish-I-hads?
I am paused. I know not which way to turn,
September 13, 2010