Kaleidoscopes in the eyes
fracture her clavicles onto
the ceiling, his stubble projected
onto the wall across the room.
Flower vases hang
in the air.
Everything is where
nothing is.
It’s all spilling, doubling
back—material
materializing.
I reach for what’s there
not there.
I’m inside the Tel Aviv painting,
red roofs sloping towards the floor.
Aphasia empties my
storage locker of speech,
so I say “ice” where I’m out
looking for “underwear.”
Language is at risk—
its liver failing, tendons tearing,
liquifying along neurons
as daylight climbs out.
Right arm feels
absence, shoots like a beam to
nowhere—
I’m fumbling on the speedboat of my body
boarded with POWs of pain
with no idea
where.
I’m at the incision of
consciousness—
launching off for
future rooms
in memory where clarity
comes as I turn off my eyes,
where everything is
where every thing is.
