day four
it begs
the question:
is there even a body
of text to be
found?
or will i wade
through viscous neutral
ground, a series of limbos,
interstices seeded,
unsprouted in fictions?
will i find the body
while languishing in fiction?
will i break the page
leave the interlude
find the body
of text, the meat of my life
story written waiting
for me to read and fulfill?
interlude after interlude.
perhaps that’s the only story.
perhaps i found the body.