In the Illumination
you will wriggle, tug, push free the skin-
your skin- as
equally, it will be wrest from you.
In the remaking, upon looking down,
nothing remains.
And nothing is everything,,
What you thought was you
as forgettable as yesterday’s spent tea-
grateful for the drink it provided but done
so done.
With the infant sight comes
rearrangement
of place, purpose, person,
even in stillness.
Particularly.
While words fall short-
stones thrown across a chasm
only to skitter the scree edge
and drop-
Wait, just wait,
we’ll join
where words are as unnecessary
as stopping the rain.