a shadow blue beam of dust
encases me;
they weave through me,
embroidering
gloomy brocades of
steel dullness.

Whose footsteps are these? Why
do they resemble leaves
without grooves? Have you been here
before?

Here begins a new trail. Whose feet planted
these bat wing trenches? If we follow them
long enough,
will we find a pond floating
under sleeping Mallards?

There's a comet in my throat
It flies too fast to see
But its friction burns
And only I can feel it

Is it a comet at all?
Or a planet shot out of orbit
By an asteroid three times its size
Hurling and screaming

Xe gazes numbly at xyr feet;
conveniently topping off xyr arms
shaped like a wispy orb.
Xe swipes at a purple fruit,
The fruit stands still,
and xyr hand slips through;
*Why couldn't I have been born tangible?