How To Explain
You feel fictional like felt, fuzzy,
Flaringly opaque, only really ever viable
Through peeps of rushed door creaks,
Rustling covers, elbows bowed against walls in
Attempted readjustment
Attempting to readjust
Stacked cups clinking back into their place of dilating
Dried up substance in rings like those of chopped tree trunks,
And the striated, lacquered Banyan beneath,
Beneath
The sort that donβt push the others back because of age like those of
Wrinkles do, folding, rolling, reaching to kiss its proximate indication,
Its proximate indication being that
When you refer to yourself as other than second person,
Another participle, an other person that inhabits your body, you can hear
You can hear
The flapping of the Wild Geese migrating
The sun rising, that the secular is religion,
The corporeal, incorporeal and in deafening chorus
In deafening chorus
You are at once visible via
Peaks through the vials,
At sonorous lapis, mounding peeks of snow, and
Everything above,
Through welling scleras and irises and pupils
Through welling scleras and irises and pupils
Each squelch remains a tick, ticking circularly, spheric and
Returning like winterβs first snow, its hissing and
Whistling and whirling insistent enough to listen,
Insistent enough to listen, but not quite loud enough to hear
The screech of machine washed wool the feeling of being
Snagged between what it means to want and what it means to
Not want anything
Not want anything,
As fiction.