On that fulcrum before sleep
I lay half in sun – legs denim-baked,
head shaded by an oak in full leaf –
when a pulse of noise
snapped geometrics
under my eyelid.

I wonder if, in that beat,
I flicked out of our world –
as we once feared photographers
would trap us on a glass plate
with their magnesium strobe.

Did I leave my body bisected
and rise like smoke,
catapulted out of being to marvel
at such an arbitrary exit,

to wonder who now moved through
my warm bones, who asked
these questions demanding answers …

as if writing an open door
can conjure it from thought alone

and knot these two worlds together
before the great drift        erases knowledge

of my path back

          and I slip away,

and unremembered?