i, digest or cubicle, rise out of
the manhole into ground-level air pressure
clad in pockmarked memory foam
in an effort to pass unnoticed in the wispy white
marquee youre still grounding to a halt in, where muscle
fibre tunnels scrawl over the planes coy surface
that we are not on but in. a drone-mounted arm
convenes three centuries of exotic
rubble in the readers digest of the deep web of the soul
and seascapes balloon and candy out of its other
language, for which this proxies, like algae
that can scarcely be countenanced
but only lived in, so
i give to it and hold and
conjure my hands back by a series
of encrypted blinks, decamp.
i have beheld the inner of blinks
and encountered the mind
of my spirit in the smoke billowing black
from the flaming snorkel heap
and gurgling into my brothers iris.
abdicate into shape, decamp.