On a trail long led away from what

it leads to.

Large wet leaves bent down to those

led.

On the back end of a rain, that already

considered itself over.

Left behind the basic goodness of a

cool breeze, effortlessly lifting the

forest.

As if edification let out levels of vibrancy.

Those led to observe peak vibrancy.

There again, large wet leaves realized

they were in place to greet--expended all

greeting.

No more abrasive than a pulse, that

gave you some much space you wanted

to give some back.

That's when large green leaves

became so responsive, that their

expressions made you see as what

moved you.

On with them--humor them, round them.

That night should recognize the tribe

of them.

The Watschandies of Australia, chancing

ceremony--as not to be spit out by spring.

To be there is to proclaim belonging,

where earth chooses a spot to open

herself.

As she digs out their gleaming eyes,

before they dig into her.

A ditch surrounded by bushes, symbolic

of female genitalia--absenting

themselves to chant: womb.

From there a fire, a round, a ditch's dark

unto darkness.

Spears in their hands,  phalluses pulling

them along what bushes seize upon--

into the night.

Only when magic outdances the dance,

& a chant's circle heaves--spears are

raised.

Return throws into a ditch--as fertility

throws her head back.

I exist in that I

do not--

I'm always

away from me.

Now.

As always,

an infinite

being.

Whose every

moment is deja vu.

So far beyond

noticing every

detail.

As if nonexistence

blinking into

being.

Teeny tiny hands let it be--

between

the furniture & music of a piano,

It

developes the taste for a certain

texture.

How relatable.

As frequencies turn my beard into

dancing flies.

It comes into focus...

another absentminded midwife

wearing a cupid arrow headband,

loses balance.

As a body of water sweeps away

broken glass.

The way things point out that there's

nothing there--there's really nothing

there.

While the depth & duration of that

nothing is saved, when we come back

from It.

Midwifed by the nearest thing you

could poke.

As if patiently positioned for a

photograph at every stage of life.

Right now.

The promise of stillness.

Directly facing the greatest

composure.

Indeed.

Today I was poured upon while

speaking to someone in the same

burrough--that said it wasn't raining.

There was so much rain in their voice,

that I didn't feel the rain.

I walked with a purpose that came from

the ground offering itself twice,

never one to rush initiation.

Having heard the official stories of where

people are in their lives, I did what a

main character does when he covers the

distance narrated to the present.

I walked home.

A transplanted room, an impressionistic

mockup of one's most stayed dwellings.

The one slept in during dreamless states.

Sighs, dragged chairs--the floors eyes

pooled on.

Light's weather, now light only--dark's

weather--now dark only.

Moved by a solitary motion, unable to

curry favor with *******.

This is rest above ground.

Swept center of center, that

contemplation saw spread still.

Passed cobwebs that rave about walls--

per pearly-faced spiders,

reflecting the silk of absolved breath.

Where music bundles up to play

higher rises--lower falls.

Evolving still lifes of vases cut off by

water, won't speak flowers aloud--

holding tight to their dried reach.

A masoleum's window is a depressed

medium, that clings to rain & snow as

a window to another.

Here bones are harder on coffins,

magnetizing their display to cautionary

tales without endings.

No--a masoleum's light comes after, right

before you.

Its way of Showing you out, if you

shouldn't be.