The heavy black velours swallow sound, light, dust.
I touch one: dessicated time cascades:
I have to resist the tickle in my throat
the trickle in my armpits.
In the light, time cascades, draws me;
my belly lurches toward the red exit sign:
but I stand my ground, ready for the certain:
I will stumble out across the wood.
Familiar patterns dissolve, refocus:
words become notes on an alien scale,
emphases become cues, false promises,
vertical threatens to become horizontals.
I rediscover breathing, chant resolutions:
resolve to walk deserts, climb mountains,
give to the homeless who might be baby
Jesus or Mohammed or the Bhudda—oh
[podcast]http://riverwriter.ca/podcast/in_the_wings.mp3[/podcast]
