Birdsong
honeysuckle, sight scent and
touch, fingers eyes nose slipping
into
oblivion of blossom, and a taste
of ozone . . . (way back, where yet the five senses
dance
in a ring, an inner chamber, half
filled with lake, of the diencephalon, before
the
screen goes blank . . . the
approaching storm
silence
of
birds
& wind risen to whatever Earth
says
when
we listen,
All
is inconstant, existence in
drift,
something like the remission
of
nothingness, not
quite,
but as temporary as any
mind
you could posit,
life
you might
bear
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