light trails

give form to the inner space, poet of the universe

these letters, this language insufficient

shadows what breathes beneath the surfaced sounds

feeble attempts to package the void of consciousness

what is here, then, poet?

what are we becoming (once again)?

what am I discovering

this stuff

freshly birthed, but no—


and the self-evident cornerstones of our being

pulse as glimpses of trailed off memory.