—because if something is infinite, and time is circular, you see it all wraps in on itself, is contained within itself
in the vacuum of outer space that resides in the center of my heart, is also outside of me, a beam of light to an artichoke lotus heart,
a caved in mine shaft, draft of cool life steaming from below where magmas pain of daybreak forges metal skies,
afternoon rides down Perring Parkway going to the motor show, the car meet at the Dundalk pier pavilion, Merriweather Post Pavilion, Hickleman’s Edge, Catamook dredge on the Chesapeake to keep the beach from disappearing completely into the bay and only delaying the inevitable,
the credible eye witness fled the scene and is hiding out in a brown and white RV somewhere in the Fiddle State Corridor,
the bedroom floor boards warp up from moisture trapped in the air vents,
the care-warded ghost of briar, song and liar hold hands and swing dance on the burning canto—
after a while we all return to the nothing place, the shadow world of fathomless space in the deep conduits of time.
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