Ray Succre: "Into the Strange"

No breath, no break, no plank of time,

those thieves running wet in no wild

are ice shod, and there is only the rumoring damp.

Have you but slow wilderness, a trickler,

in forever infanthood, nursing reprobate matters?

Or tasting you in nips with the faintest hunger,

has no Sun yet come here to eat you?

Into the strange, hive-bound and stark,

there is but the tip of a human finger,

itself a silent key to itself,

past circuits, fish, and folds of any one, grit world,

a staggering lawn of ticking and yonder.