no longer imagine you lived—it would all be one bright

muddy swamp of color, something beyond yet not free

of pain. It would all be something other than heat, than ice,

something other than the wave your hands could not frame,

something less than the nano-cyber-pata-kinetic crawl

your sight could not measure—it would be sound; it would

be breath; it would be the unraveling of flame and salt,

the remaking of oil and earth and stars. If you knew,

you would make the same sameness and trust again

that it would all be something other than you, other

than it was before, other than it could be tasted and shaken,

an earth without a storm, hungers that could be psalms.

                                (from Beautiful Laceration)