A granite-tinged
violet fog enshrouds
my brainstem. I become
a tepid traveler, shuffling
and sore. Lantern’s light,
snagging on a million little dew impedances,
unspools into thick threads
of every single color.
Streamers barely billowing, celebrating
existence and the gaps
that permeate it (the exact
coordinates where red becomes
orange becomes yellow…)
Brushing angel hair from my
face, every movement
a bruising moment; I begin
to become color. My blood
brings all my auras to the surface,
making it easier for them to diffuse
through thick skin and
evaporate. So yes,
it is deflation–—a harmless
loss of self–—But more so it is
integration,
time stitched seamless into passages through spectrums.
bclines.bethelks.edu 