I write

Twist out of myself, grey tornado. Pour out of these ears,
these lungs, through this, my belly.
I become something without a body, I am a thought, I am
I am, I am.
A sack of eyeballs roll in the dark, rub against each other,
press against the skin of their material prison, gnarl into shapes
that eyeballs should not, for a glimpse, a look, a snatch
Of my bodiless existence.
Nothing to see here, nothing to hold onto, to grasp.

I am not here, I am everywhere.
For a moment I am invisible.
For a moment I am God.
For a moment, this moment, I write.