my own skin
turning me inside out
spoke frankly
of pleasure
and its recourse
where all is absorbed
in the presence
of another
where it is soft
the field of white
refuses a spectrum
where it is dense
so does the field
of black
here
suspended
without walls
looking for direction
the gravitas of ground
elide
this time it is the moving
of memory lapse
we created a real that is no longer
transparent
the walls around me
scatter.
their particles,
dispensed with geometry,
fade into
a white surround
sequin-toned voices
condense the emptiness
into a
pulsing, whorling,
metal-tinged
polyphony
of robot insects
searching for the one