Lissa Wolsak

but as the conchy bearer	  of speech-blows,

a reflection on taking place		flew off the palm of my hand

always already luo,


outside each others	 light-cones

as with the many-bodied

suspensi spiritus

   is not our own     impasse

   the art of dying    consciously 

   he is waking,     just as I sleep

The East Village Poetry Web