Places where I go to conjure still mystifies me because when
engulfed in smoke and whirling mist, time slows and stops then moves again.

Some small strand of self slithers out and looks about then returns with small inspiration
Some morsel or crumb.

An otherly finger pokes in.
It plants a seed then stealthily recedes

The road lurches slowly then smoothly , tilting this  way then that way.
Questing, cohesion. A bolus of inspiration.
With sticky tendrils gently unfurled

This thing makes made odd.
My wife looks at me as if,as if, as if.
Always been a bit odd.

Oblique. after all.
Weird. Round peg in a square hole.
**** it.




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