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
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