in my experiments I am exposed. Where the hand of the cleansed pets my scalp, and digs its nails well under my meninges. And grasps onto my chiasm to force my head back out of where it rests, and where it’s been. And I see, the sky bore a pearl. The pinball above casts its atmosphere around us as a dome containing the fog of our skin. Shrouding my prints, and the tracks of my parents. And the map of our possibility is black as the forgotten while beneath. And when the hand releases, I fall to rest and exhaust my memory. And so it fades. Afterward, I walk a little past the white of our sclera onto the cornea, I feel chemical burns on my feet. But the warmth is so telling. So I look at the glow of the phosphorescent spots. They become real seeping through my sight from a figment to a child’s. And as I focus myself on them they grow and consume to create a light beyond the torches of my predecessors. It shows the path we must. Its ambiance lifts me from my souls and its light spreads my retinas to three dimensions over again. And as my skin disappears I see the marble. I reach, but I can only grab its ninth layer of armor. So I climb and conquer the phosphorus cushion to feel the dome. And I peer over it briefly before the shine in my lens smolders and my skull weighs me to the ground one step back. The cascade uninitiated, but close to repeating reliance.
