Thru’ cracks between the worlds I slither, as if

there, in the green flanks of the hills

are thin doors set edgewise

invisible until the key, the clue is slotted precisely.

Sitting in one still place

growing familiar with each contour

the way roots slide and the air seeps into every chink:

it becomes clear, Yes, by sitting here with the silence

in and between each squeak of grass and how the sap sings

I find the key has turned and I am into that hinterland

where molecules loll like great white moons

and my locality is suddenly transparent, non-spatial;

the sun’s clock is stopped

And inside the infinitude of this moment

I am blown apart like thistledown.

By Siam Siam