If you look hard, it is a process
of falling from a tear in the sky
where the fist of a new star
broke night into some arrival
to tumble down
a spiral staircase
of syllables, dispossessed
and never thinking to own––
not the looking, not the sight
of any of it, not the words,
not the threaded gravities
tugging its light
into them.
Gymnastic Grammars
Language in liminal space.

Gorgeous!
Thank you, Bartholomew. Cheers to you, friend!