Feeling about for sweet oblivion
where memories lie impotent
where breath strings into nothingness
unencumbered by motion
This stuffing of blood and cells
in parentheses of time, form, deeds
each after the other, in a punctuated sequence
becoming moot, coming undone
All humans, all doors,
swinging in apprehension, in anticipation
on the inside, on the outside
of what, I do not know
but losing sense of the hinge sometimes
and becoming exposed to the elements.
