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“With very little particular interludes, as if no availability were available”

Is it in you? this emptiness- the sound,
when you can hear it, a solid clamour,
tearing the dust off the things
we haven’t touched in ages-

when I say I know this,
how can I have ‘said’,
with my eyes I am seeing-
a person this close to the wall be-
at that edge,

finally, If I can be in it,
strength, light inside
the positive un-positive,

in freezing the everything,
all the solid bases,
the reckoning with a self unseen for years-
to whom, glass under or, heavier-
is it to go into the womb part,
and agitate,
come quickly, put your first fist,
your first foot,
into the muddy interior,
the excised charisma,
how we all know so little on how to die
admirably,

the best parts of ourselves
scared for all the years they continue,
up against our own seeing,
Am I? Are we?
isin’t this, then, the beauty of having,
exactly lacking, no answer?
for anything-anyone.

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