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I framed another void of thought

to watch it reveal another wall

behind another wall’s blitzkrieg

where I still clutch the clinging vine.

I would like to know the dead,

to squish through that void—soft,

moist as a sponge, nearly Play-Doh-like,

eject myself from this Mental Seat

for once, for a time, not reducing

but rejoicing, like a pilot in a burning

aircraft. What is the mind without

Abstraction? If I were a bird,

I would be a clay pigeon. A Cloud,

backlit by the clockwork of the

evening light—pink-orange magma.

It is difficult to juggle what is not there,

but detachments are necessary,

like standing in a thick forest—dark

as the insects as they watch from

the trees, the animals as scattered as

pointillism, every vein in each leaf

like the anatomical remains of

Henry Thoreau—the gaps in the tops

of trees could be me, or could be

like great nasal passageways, where I

breathe, undetached, going about

like the rattling chassis of a prancer.