tip of it

sold
to the gut of my myth
roundabouts make strange compasses
steering the ship of my mind
around a concrete sea without
noticing
the illusion
in the desert of this city
left hand lane
indicator throbbing like a thin
alphabet a slow
pulse
two thirds full
the glass
on an empty table
if its inside out it's
outside in
Hebraic alterations
unstitching the language
we used we
used
concentrating on the magma
airborne ash and shattered rock
broken fire
I levitate
around the Greek root
as it pollinates through time into
the word that's on my tongue
the tip of it