for days now
i awake in
emptiness —
not unlike
fear, a kind of
vacancy
as if
flying
above an ocean
with no map or
navigation, only
fuel enough for
the remainder of
life and
the silent sclaffing
sound of the
propellor
the sea, a flat
horizontal of mottled
filigree, blue in green
spread between
air and floor
why remain in flight?
what is this in me that wants
to wait and see?
chris woodhull
Monks & Mannequins 