I have met a stranger
hanging from the point of nothing
where no wretched parochial fashion
disembowels,
no fellated Pop,
the prop of some, is angled in, exquisite –
no,

the dilation of his eyes
met me on a disc of white -
the hands of mine
spinning the entire weight,

hurtling from a place
of  uncontrolled proportions
of nothingness
and patience.

I fear this place
of limitation –
it survives on an originality
slowly disappearing from grace.