The crossing behind the window is crushed and shining,

its fire leaping onto the darkness, and

the plasma turns blue.

On the surrounding cliffs,

nests are burning.

Inhaling and exhaling, livelihoods condense into stars,

shaking their flesh.

From the center of oscillation,

morning—not here, is seeping through,

   repeating ruptures on the other side of the sphere.

The glimpse of a crowd getting ready

   besides the throat, stretching

from the rolling spine is seen,

   secreted at whereabouts undefined,

changing color,

ever spilling and silent.

A compass, touching

the acute floor with both knees,

you, precise, in the compartment

are pinching the shade, curling

the thickened fingers like filaments.

Their tremors

illuminate my lines.

A gag order has been put in place

as if our neighbors

wearing layers of space suits

break in, cutting through the partition

with a piece of paper.

One can breathe

without a helmet on, so we mutter.

Only the traffic lights, blinking through the hole

leading to the camps, were as usual.

We cannot, not make a noise,

our limbs born

from the mud intertwined

have their own masses, and

accelerate, to fall free.

Silence is the amount of time leading to

the break, touching the rock surface.

Once released,

a voiceprint

transfers from drums to ossicles, bending

the shape of semicircular canals with tail lamps.

By the port just about to cave in,

not cosmetic eyes nor cheeks but wet and smooth

tongues rise from the underground.

I craved to carve those ubiquitous walls

with hieroglyphs.

Look, a puddle!

Clouds are going up, in the abyss by the feet.

At this address uncertain,

gravity becomes transparent, to the core (nucleic).

As fluids sticky,

we turned itchy

red, as if reaching the source,

sinking.