Miracles are sticking
in a granulated grinding
in my a-systemic brain.

And a Silence
Silence
Silence
of a dark, oppressive violence
in the quiet of a water-stop –
drip-plop, drop-plop

Then

--
--

Then the only sound remaining
is the ever-present pounding
of a Hand
(of a hand)
of a sand-like nature
in its calculated measure,
made of crystal agitation.

The embers of a question
smolder deeper in a crevice
in the softness of a

--
--

Does it matter?
Even better,
when the answer isn’t ever
left a why,
but a how.
What a how.
In a new-awakened confirmation,
sweetly-stifled revelation’s
hidden from awareness
in a tearing,
ill-comparing
to the motion of the granules
in my a-systemic brain.