Nothing is closed

in the Universe

Events of history

stand flapping loose

like hatches ajar

in the wind moving 

through a graphene-tinted house

in your mind's eye

but your mind

is an imagined situation

ajar

with flapping impulses

and thoughts

one after the other

and all at once

for time also

is an imagined situation

and the imagined situation

is an imagined

situation

too

Place is nowhere

to be found

and you can't make an appointment

with time

Something flaps

in the stench of the gusts

of self-awareness

as you hear the color brown

warming your lower legs,

as you feel the geyser

of focused world

emitting

from the top of your skull

and yet

out of this cloud

of cells and bacteria

living off of the stars

rises a mirage

into which you wake,

out of which you wake