Casting off the Self

On the second floor of a center city

building looking out of glass and into

the past. The heat forges defined lines and

carves shadows into cement. Our sun as

the primal sculptor, shaping life and death.

One of many stars which are the source,

the penultimate creators of all.

And you are also made up of everything,

but only aware of it in passing,

so the split second when you commune with

the universe makes all the difference.

This sound of heat is a still wind tunnel.

As humans trudge through bludgeoned streets, melting

as their walking, you just stand and take it

all in. Passing time and chance up with no

qualms. Searching for language in order to

make light of external intangibles.

Granting memory and reflection rest.