it is something that has
made me once laugh.
and now that it is something
that is done to perpetuate
a divinity of its savoir faire,
or unfurl the evocativeness of
  sartorial workmanship,
it is something that inhabits
me like an imagined pit
that a body should plummet into
and crash, having fallen off
from the boughs of a bottomless dream.

like snow or silence, drops onto its vastness and fastens in it such felicitous rigor greeting it
   like an old companion, reminding
   me of these unimpeachable occurrences: as a wrinkled log is petrified, where mosses pullulate to archipelagic green, where wild ivies sprawl like children in the high-afternoon, or clandestine Paraneoptera ensconced somewhere within the triviality
    of demarcated stones in
the dark's cunning edge,

  my body knows its peace,
   all borderless without flounce
  flourishing in its still life.