Bubble babies sometimes drift into the psychic sky –
precipitants precipitately wash the inner eye –
they come to touch identity; that is, when they’re allowed:
summoned by some drum, their soft collective cloud
of influence – precise and light, unsentimental –
permeates and lifts resistance to the elemental:
gathers up the static of self-scrutiny, and pulls it
into something sleeker – a little freer of the bullshit.
Slowly, knotted tangles evanesce a bit: don’t vex
quite the way they used to about aging, death and sex.
.
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