The Collective

There is no chair

There is no room

There is no house

There is no town

There is no county

There is no state

There is no country

There is no continent

There is no planet

There is no stars

There is no orbit

There is no celestials

There is no sun

There is black

There is a gasoline ocean

There is waves turning

There is waves crashing

There is a matchbox in your pocket

There is your hand reaching for the matchbox

There is your finger opening the box

There is your match-strike upon the sandpaper shell

There is fire

There is brightness

There is your best throw

There is an ocean of gasoline set aflame

There is the sun

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The Collective - Hello Poetry