(no subject)

[proximoception]

Tap and you'll find there's a back of your head.
Don't tap you'll know that there's none.

Some think there's a real kind of nothing behind.
We ripple between here and nothing.
Or we are a Nothing that's passing through Here.
Or we are the Here fleeing Nothing.
The spill, the line of the spill, the spilled on.

The noback I thought I had, that was like this:
Each thing that ever could be but just hadn't
Squashed up against the slim somewhere that was.
My face was the window. Some slipped through the crack.
The pressure of hadn't-beens equaled mere everything's.

The noback I now think I have's not the same.
Behind me's what's stood on by things that I stand on.
Flavors I've never quite tasted but walked in.
Lights that I've read by but never did see.
A dimness of bodies unmet ununfriendly.

It's peopled like depths of the wide underwater.
It ripples like wind and it's wasteful like rain.
Its colors are bright glows of darkness, like dream things.
Nothing can feel like it feels when I find
Here before me a firm thing that fluttered behind.