Make Ourselves Scarce: A Poem

Where do they converge?

Reality and our detachment

discovering an interstitial haven

all our own?

It isn't even a place

it isn't even a vision

it isn't even thought itself...

It is a dream we have

with eyes open,

melting like metal

until our eyelids drop.

A sweet heaviness requiring

gentility; if we break

we break together -

that's it, there's the convergence,

right there, in every single act

of momentary disappearance prolonged...

if only without time

(an amber light beating

to a pulse, a pulse)