iiixvi

#IIIXVI // Ben Mirov

Have you ever lifted
the edge of the idea curtain
to find ethereal light
pours through the crack 
straight into the pitch black curvature
of your brain illuminating 
the inchoate wraiths that flap
in the substance of your thought?
Neither have I. Some days
I can’t even leave the kitchen.
I just stand there weeping
on the dishes, waiting
for the white glove of magic
to carry me away.