(Excerpt from “Vibration Desks,” a long poem in Rag Cosmology)

Inside its surround
folded in, I’m a fold
of it, I’ve never left atmospheric
borders I engorge to the point of
enfolded, I’m a pleat, a pore, a breather, a yellow
drape of it
runs through me violetly
dissolving borders to the curve
runs through me nowhere
that isn’t here, and I can’t crash therefore
the meadow, whoever you are
is a condition of being nowhere
that isn’t ejecting only
onwards into here