Friday, January 12, 2024

Still Hovering

The actual afterlife
Isn’t for imagining
Or for experiencing

With the embodied senses,
Although something’s going on
That sometimes smacks of vision

And sometimes appears near sweet
In air. Proprioception
Is almost wholly erased,

But there’s an aspect
Of relative distance, space,
A roughly fore and after

Arrangement of faint presence.
Is there a way to explore
This watered-down afterworld?

Is this just the fading glow
Bright lights leave on retinas?
If so, no retinas here,

Middle of not anymore.
There is that spear-leaved flower
Dense with lines, still hovering.

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