early one morning i closed my eyes
my mind is blank
infinitely blank
except for that door
infinity small
and moving
here one minute and gone the next
virtual in its being
except for the tapping
the pressing
when the eye flap opens
a lance of light
attests the sugar
and then the wren thoughts
in the corkscrew
there one minute and gone the next
unlocatable
in the hedgerows of my mind
beneath the shroud
stoned and ghosted
hand on brow falling
forward sitting back
my breaths a picket fence
deciding how far one should dare
cross the snowfields
the thin ice of the wearing
yes
the hushed voices hushing the voices
on the other side of listening
another mind in the wings
waiting
the prompt waiting
on the stage a new backdrop
the audience hang
upon a soliloquy
that has its hand upon the door
but It is in the non-looking that we find
that the door is locked
is in fact not a door
but a blankness
oxymoronic in its depth
deaf to knocking
open to a turning away
here one minute and gone the next
the hand
on falling upon it
will never grasp it
will never grasp that the blankness
is
as a matter of fact
it
is
as a matter of fact
not a fact at all
not at all
all
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