a swallow

a swallow

there is a conscription at the center of things a thing of whirling
bats, unfold into the masses the waiting
wings of the light, the tethers, fingers the
centers of that space that
connecting line swirl column gyre that
elusive illusion illuminating
that most terrible of black spaces, the crack between
the fallen void the
space between LANGUAGETHOUGHT and VISIONWORLD the
black space that world
of dank imagination.