by Robert Joe Stout

Light as soft as feathers fills the room
around him as he, like feathers,
floats away, yet sees a form—his own—

stretch, sigh, turn on computer,
pour fresh coffee, thumb through papers,
lift, discard and finally write.

Soft, thick down absorbs the words
that are not words but fibered beings
like himself, shaped to realities that grow

and change, manipulate on visual planes
that soft thick light they sense but cannot name.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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