As we sit cross-legged on the carpet and face each other's white socks
I wait for a couple of words to fly in through the open window
hands fast asleep, meditating a cup of tea
we cast shadows on walls, tree trunks are less lasting than our hunched backs
as we sit, knee to knee, under the house made of three sticks, we wait.
and

leaves waterfall out the windows of every building, flowers blossom and snow down the avenues
as we sit, eye to eye, we wait
strings of red from the carpet under our feet untangle, rip away,
strings of green from the carpet below our shoulders unsow unsolve,
into wool, back as sheep, into nothingness.
the wooden floor of the attick, as we sit white-socked, clouded and patient, thins,
un-carves its own calves, our calves float over nothing.
the walls around, as we wait, fill themselves with mould, paper-pealed, parted concrete from form:
dis-form, implode, dust into our hairs, cover our eye-lashes in white ends.
we're monks who meditate under the wreckage of a house: but there is no house. Around us, float furniture, fly away couches and chairs, a refrigerator is sucked to the moon, and we, cross-legged, white-socked, dressed in our pijamas, float over a city.
the city slowly unwinds its clocks, unscrolls its parchments, unmasks the smallest of towns.
below our floating bodies walk horses and donkeys, a small farmer's market, a woman milks a cow.
as we sit. as we wait. dusted and cross-legged, hands on knees, fingers slightly, vaguely, ifly touching,
birds sing and fly their conscious goodbyes, tell each other stories of future skyes in fiction tries, remember the elderly, and all at once become just feathers
and the feathers fall over our heads, future pillow-fights we should have had.
clouds then finaly decide the moment is theirs: build up storms, form flocks of cotton lead:
rain on us and our land.
as we sit, as we wait, lightening overhead,
the flood itself has never had more time to spread
now water takes hold and the small town has gone, fields of kelp and blue whales form below our floating figures, our monk-like-knees, our four white socks.
and they too, the whales, tsunamis and coral reefs become, in time, a practiced rhyme of crayons on a little girl's drawing. and the color melts under our sky, solving oceans, mysteries, lies and shoals of fish.
mountains crumble, stones dissolve, predators and prey bravely melt away.

as we wait, patiently and still, floating over all

The air itself in sparkles tries to discharge, to tell its own story, static energy flies through our still bodies, and touched by color it strikes its last echoe. time and air fly out the designated trap-door made of nothing.

trees, books, stories and shoes, colors, tigers, mothers and pieces of gum. mathmatishians, stars, pools and concepts, cartoons, revolutions, items of clothing and peaches, cars, washing machines, science and neurons, poems, tastes, caves, lions foxes bears oh my, people and things, comets, networks, fishermen, sea turtles, colar-bones. The world is over.

Now, finaly, there is nothing. There is nothing at all. We sit, cross-legged, fingers almost touching, in our pijamas, facing each other. Nothing below our floating figures, nothing, at all, above our heads. We could watch the final episode now, the season finale. Maybe we could, now, lay down side by side and let our white-socked-feet touch, and we could watch the end.
Or, we could sit here forever, after all is gone, with nothing else to do, I could sit here forever with you. I will sit here forever with you.