Day Eleven - anna kiss

imaginary numbers

the steady pace
of all things
betrays the underlying
frenzy
the look of lists
the feel of wool,
paper, cotton, knit material
cut and stitched again together

am i feeling better?
how even do i feel?
do i fall suddenly and surprisingly
the wild turn on beds of stars,
never-ending absence of light,
vast plains of nothing?

do i feel surely,
reliably,
with progression
accompanying predictably?
is it uncertainty
disguised by ennui?
the silence of overwhelm,
its roaring emptiness
and all the ultimate returns to something,
everything,
composed of the empty spaces between,
made and wrought of
not a thing identifiable,
but no less real
than all the tangible distractions of modern life.