keep everything within.
pack the corners with cellophane,
lung with cigarette. tight thoughts
without forms: is whoever my
pincushion my religion?
what is what? is what is, is?
questions without answers.
journeys without destinations.
sealed tight, that unknowable
great, that observing cloud,
is but a mason-jar of desperation,
that’s swirling, and swirling still,
never at ease, oh – never eased.
