Timeless Burrowing

In parasomnic weaving, time spun

in wake, in sleep, the same commune;

a parlance with that unseen

they speak in whispers of light,

whispers of light and blackest eddies of sonic.

Weaving time in a bubble of life...

I see the truth in flashes behind my eyes;

angels, demons, synaptic firing;

any cloak will do, for what arbitrary title

adequately describes the unknowable?

If I stare hard at the light I can see

the innumerable form of myself

feathering out and backward,

filling my former footfalls

and there in front, steps yet to be taken.

In eternity I am a centipede,

the time I have secreted

apportions me into these fragments.