Thru cracks between the worlds I slither, as if
there, in the green flanks of the hills
are thin doors set edgewise
invisible until the key, the clue is slotted precisely.
Sitting in one still place
growing familiar with each contour
the way roots slide and the air seeps into every chink:
it becomes clear, Yes, by sitting here with the silence
in and between each squeak of grass and how the sap sings
I find the key has turned and I am into that hinterland
where molecules loll like great white moons
and my locality is suddenly transparent, non-spatial;
the suns clock is stopped
And inside the infinitude of this moment
I am blown apart like thistledown.
By Siam Siam