John Savoie

JOHN SAVOIE


Space

Thrum in spine, thrust in core,
hands crawling with emptiness,
lizard flick twitching in tongue—

none of this brings you any closer,
your palpable soul,
your body sublime

shrunk to whispers
from the voice
I no longer dare to trust.

The silver cord is cut
and I am drifting
into that black beautiful despair

where nothing touches or is touched,
the center of that circle from which
all things ripple away, small, far, gone.

To think is to shout
yet every cry
shrivels in rarefied air.

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