push record

In a trance,
a warm winter sun
and somatic echoes
pull dreams from my bones
and the stars
become repetition compulsion—
call and response.

A gust of wind,
voices carry.
Thresholds of absence
absorb transfiguration—
artificial as divination.
Ease my thighs.
Pay attention.

Track the pattern.
It’s what is encouraged
when time does not stop.