It would happen. The things approach us. We feel them in our horizons. Extending out behind us. A sort of fullness. A swelling, sweltering cool. Billowing possibility. Stand and stare, even in our movement, unseeing. We blindly gaze. Caught short, upended, the rhythm is certainly sea. We are dry. We will happen. We are bound to. Look out.
Remote murmur. You know.
Not trauma. Distant thrumble.
You speak.
Echo absorbs.
It would happen. Consider.
It will happen. Just you wait.
A world is a kind of ode.
Your body a stylus.
We are here.
N Filbert 2012
Polysemic Stupor 