it is
the thought of a wraparound clench of the stomach
(from the dorsal side)
drilling my eyes into nothings,

feeling a child in a later stage,
the soft black cotton stretched over the emergent ****
of what was once a morula,

in absence
becoming a scientist
begging to understand through ablation,

and a priest believing that innocence molts

     in silence
bringing unintended sound.