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I’m laying here in the in-between of suns

beginning to spin thoughts in the moon sunk hours

unraveling, my loose threads tangle in tiny knots

grasping hands in the dark, which hold me

beneath an ink-thick veil of neither silence nor sound

hearing only the echoes of the insides of my selves

in cacophonic whispers that are never able to agree

clamoring for space, they elbow against the edges of my skull

clawing through grey matter, tearing synapses in their tasmanian wake

before emerging orifical in a blood-throbbing burst

blinding white-hot light-spots refract into spectral color

prismatic against the onyx aura of the room, a collective exhale exhumes

their kaleidoscopic wisps collect into reflections of faces I’ve sometimes

seen in the glass gazes of mirrors or glances caught in an

especially bright window in spring as I blow

past on wind-lifted footsteps weightless in the bud-studded

breeze on my wanderer days that glide on black-veined wings

glowing translucent against the sorbet rays of the sky gone

twilight holding steady as I set softly into the horizon suspended between atmosphe