Andrew Dawes

at first,

the smell of stone,

next,

the sound of waves,

before

thousands of rippling atoms 

coalescing into 

shiny, round, grey beads they

glisten and glimmer

each reflecting

the raised circle

upon which

I stand,

caught

in the

pure

unsourced light

which surrounds me 

and obscures them 

everything whirling.

white breeze,

soft scent,

and then

it

hits. me. hard.

i taste cool water and warm rock and dry space.

infinite empty vista that

leaves my tongue somewhat sandy.

here i would introduce a change but there is no quality of self-governance in this shimmering molecular curtain i find myself confronted with (by?) - looking toward (towards?)  - facing.

this

is

fabric.

this is 

what moves under

all the rest.

hand me 

the silver needle

dear

and thread it
only

with the 

finest

gold.