but, upside down in the dark,

all the lyrics have fallen
to the bottom of the box.

turned, back to the dark ocean,
the strange wet lap of the beach,

and, as I risk vertigo,
riding a warm updraft to

hover and glide with the gulls,
all strokes, no answers, fending

off clocks and chess boards and clouds,
intravenous hits of doubt.

it’s a furred logic this, as
truth makes its slow osmosis.

but the trick? don’t read for plot.