fORGET tHIS

Bumps from underneath my
eye lids configured darkness
to conceive brightness
as to lasso those concepts to
decompress them to singular
percepts—unassisted affects
constricting towards an illuminated
vowel; isolated from the truth
calling on to it for reference.

Maybe my hands are meant to be cold,
meant to shiver at the absence of light
to crinkle and fold between the winds
daring me to surrender
but no
to consider, to contemplate, to mull
for affixes a ground for a road for a clearance
to hit my inertial body when I expect it most.

Fit into this tube, pour out detached
spiraling suspended in this spacious vacuum.
Lay down amuse, bemuse, annoyed
and far from entertained. Question the answers,
answer the fucking questions, question thinking about
thoughtful answers, think about thinking.
Think far into a depthful space where it no
never concerns, but produces more thinking
that you forget and wait forever again
to remember.