Even in the abstract,
there are no
inert substances.
Seemingly spontaneously,
verbs
beget participles;
words fizz
and collide
like charged particles
in the outer reaches
of space
so uncharted,
so ill-defined,
it's referred to,
somewhat derisively,
as memory.
*
takes up no space
in the imagination—
is noiseless
and distant
as underlying trauma.
Who'd have thought
the mere act
of observation
could ever contain
so much drama?
Who'd have thought
the self
could be so cosmic-
ally mundane?