eight-thousand one-hundred twenty-eight

days to write realities, and sleep

in those given to me.

words are the residue, crumble into

memories behind my head rising

in the morning.

(8128) in a cocoon,

in the meeting room, i could almost

peak out. when voices congruent

give illusions of flight and the

words drip residual off

fabric soft, but stiffening

wet, like the sheets waking up

on kansas august mornings.

over eight-thousand and some-number

thoughts i had today

about the essence of emergence

and what we leave when we've said

everything, and go away,

about the nature of our nature

and the ultimate transience of

eight-thousand, one-hundred twenty eight

days in the thing we've called existence

as a thing whose nature crumbles

every morning when awake.