Ballet

1 Behold! A strange engine. Bereft seagull tines, mound of wet. Thousands of years old, must be. I reckon this thing runs itself, no need to tend to it. Just that hum like the ocean before it. I reckon it had a use, one can sense a sort of pressure leaking out the edges, see it too, when the lighting is right, like a slick fog. It sits on clean ground, one dares not approach. Bundle of white tubes stretch out of a hidden center, piercing the ground at intervals of a few yards. Nothing happens here. Count the entry holes.

2 Have you been here before? The known path becomes destabilized by organ rift echo. Broken pile of sticks, an old friend, no longer marks the turn. Truth becomes a cudgel. Intuition is spite. It's night now, and the flashlight of your iPhone 12 mini illuminates a footprint screenshot in mud, and tire tracks which end at the tree line. You walk forward, passing a temporary structure on your right hand side which, of course, reminds you of childhood. Once a year, the magic man would emerge, erecting a tent in the town center. There, you witnessed your first miracle.

3 The eternal wet thump leaves you dull and restless.

4 You are now breathing manually.

5 You have been denied quiet detachment.

6 Become 2

7 We stand next to each other and we do not speak. That taste comes back, which always precedes the thing said aloud, the thing that becomes spit and crust. I live on the 98th floor of an eco-brutalist high-rise in a not so nice part of town. I know everything I will ever know. Later, you hold the black stone between your index and middle fingers. Up here, the wind don't stop singin.

8 This world is so big.

9 You can't stop smiling.

10 Type until your fingers prune.

11 Dance until your toe nails split.

12 Draw me inflated then pop.

13 I'm a fucking pop star.

14 You can hand write eternity.

15 It goes like this.

16 Let it be round That thing I've taken a liking to The plane lands safely Between lines of A and low fog Let it be soft where it sits in your back pocket Night is a poor fake, be it grey or still, or toothed I'm afraid if I slow my steps My heart will follow I need to man up

17 I'm up late, kicking my feet. I can't even remember what it was like before.

18 Grip the compass, that still small voice. Wearied navigator in the impossibly awesome nothing.

19 The sun has set. The wind sings still.

20 Made human again by untied shoes - you can't help but kneel.