The soft line about me
contours my figure to ground
of which I am less certain
its makeup

Push, pull,
yaw me in space

Long-drawn
cushion of touch

A central agitation
between the eyes that is more
pressure on the optic nerve than
any real sense of being

Breath’s a valve,
there are few ways in

Contract, expel
me into ground

Is
a way out

© Chagall 2016