There is a time here. Everything has turned quite flat.
But I do not resent the sinister feeling overlapping my worlds.
A great whelping worrisome feeling fills me up.
And I am encountered one by one by dreams
I will not remember.
I am a gentle touch. I have left scorched earth everywhere.
I am still hungry.
I too have lips. They also are chapped each morning
from the bitter rinds that dreg from the sea.
I cannot account for time. Nor do I wish it.
I cannot hear the space or the conviction
that will sway you.
From me, the reflections have dried up.
I have become a foreign presence in my own body.
Neither truth nor wholeness matter.
But a lingering darkness.
The wick of all things.