1

face presses on the linen
I impose my form upon it
vera icona
uncertain evidence for this world

towards the essence:
to smash molecules
rearrange atoms
abandon any prospect of
a measurable phenomenon

to change blood to water
subvert the inner environment
with ordinary procedures

2

there are three
empty hands
they point downwards:

darkness
denser
not dissimilar to fog
smoke grey moustaches clouds
or a felt jacket

flood of eyes
gazes throats caverns
welcome me?             will they rip me apart?
absorb me?

3

to overcome gravity

in the mine slump of a pillow
and without a buoyancy force

to return
with gaze stabbing them through
distant from death
at a fencing-foil’s remove

sacrifice to the dead in the interspace
whatever you have to hand:

all your hair
a glass of water
an apple