a pink porcelain rose sits gently
resting in coiled aluminum

the night is bitter and moist
and those things dont usually exist
(beside one another)

such whatisit cant be shown
it cant be grabbed or touched

the nothingness that moves it
is so full of everything
(bursting at its seems)

numbing light gathers
it waits and floats splitting the thinness of the air making tiny pieces that carry minutes hours seconds

mumbles in whispers in laughter
ruthless relentless resignation

(of my voice and sound and stare.