I am all out of bask.
I am all out of that which fosters bask.
only pour keeps happening.
if and when the need of sense occurs,
beckons as a me, is an awareness response.
only to discover that pour has no first person,
eventually no edges, surface or substance.
pour comes to mean, beyond definement.
no one is left to experience an action
in terms of describing it.
the surrender is to committedness of being
yet being has no clarity of boundaries.
no one is watching of itself.
containment is non-locational.
I cannot speak to you
in the same syntactical way
you are understanding me.
we are not in that kind of agreement
about how speech is working it
and understanding yields agreement.
this is all invitational, at best,
incomprehensible, at worst.
I am bleeding a language
I never knew existed.
upon further review to start,
there are no solids involved in what is happening.
how fluid works has no nouns.
this movie is not made of fast moving stills.
the hologram is not a wardrobe.
that I have words is the last of me,
left on an island of experience soon departing.
you are the postcards I send to you from here.
from where you bask, is a method of entry
and the collapse is unexpectedly expansive.
I only miss you from where we are not one.
otherwise, the experience of bask
is only a fallback position,
as departure from smallness is inevitable . . .
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