Climate of the Mind

Turning, grasping inward
my soul has arms, so empty now -
reaching, deeping, the pain investigator,
past wet folds of flesh like bedclothes,
a hollow is enclosed

and inside:
no toys
no pets
no songs of silent growing, the thrum
of the pitterpat sparrow's heart,
dreaming of surf pound and crash
from a previous life washed in,
and washing away, no

no new presence
lingering, waiting its chance
to take over life and hijack
bloodstream
no

just me, here
and all around spreading out, but
mostly here

in this hole