I'm suspicious the whirlwind is weightless.
the words, methods, arguments, patterns
painted around and above me.
there's a breath and depth to being
more powerful than thinking.
it's sand at the bottom of the sea
that makes its way up to seashells.
it's carelessly singing
the music of us existing.
without always knowing
exactly what it's saying.
it doesn't participate in the games of
guessing, stretching, reworking, and lurking
around to grab, snatch, and convince.
it sits within.
waiting for lasers thin and bright
enough to pierce through
too many layers of skin.
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