Kate Bernadette Benedict
There is no without here, just within.
Enclosure leading to enclosure.
Less a dwelling place than a condition
and the character of it: contracture;
and the material of it: skin?
Within, within. I've paced it withershins.
I've clambered up its tiny tor and stumbled.
I've fallen down in subatomic spins;
subatomically, I've gotten jumbled.
My synapses are torqued and wearing thin.
There is no delight here, no chagrin.
No down or up unless your name is quark.
A host of quarks can line-dance on a pin!
Or bounce from Mars to Io to New York.
Or maybe not. No where here, just wherein.