white wall black holes

between twenty six leadlettered soldiers marching past
the plated press of breath braised by graphite time and
scribal self into a journied-double quoted in abridged
and signifying armies from the clutch of centuries of
mobilizing threshholds of unquoting ideas into dark
ascensions trailing Budha's daughter's pouring bronzed
reflections from whitehot crucibles of underwater writing
running gushes into pools of nothing in reverse of every
minute breached beyond frontiers
it
seems
that
no
one
lays
with
words
like
you

"A man never travels exccept around the edges of his own soul." (Kazantzakis, 1959)