getting real, no mere,
yet first, we shall

utter the unspeakable,
sculpt with our eyes
the faintest image,
hear silence's roundness
circumnavigate our mind's
trying verseliterations.
dream a dying thing;
a facelessness
nor a jell - thinking the
unthinkable,
so that in our desperation,
words morph into
anticipated things written
in lighted calligraph -
and with these, things unmoving
shall grow hands and commune to us
through transmogrifications
and cling onto us...

like a thing drowned in love,
or startled, whichever.