Late Night

Surrounded, detached in numbness, flat disk 
of space. Alone, shadows of hand brush 
my face. My skin awaits, yet no touch as 
matterless fingers clutch for my heart 

and pull through the void an endless tenure, 
like swallowing food wrapped in muslin 
attached to a string which pulls up through 
the throat and rushes through it, the wind. 

But the air is still and I realize 
There is no wind but I which cannot stop 
running. I look down at my knees across. 
They draw ever running never stopping. 

Itching, dim-conceived corner of the brain. 
Cannot scratch it. Black orgasm 
fills, emptying, shuddering flailing legs
to their helpless ubiquitous escape. 

Swaying, fenestrated tentacles scream 
airstream. Affix my body to my legs. 
As if I could separate my existences, 
none of this will really be happening. 

Christy Bergman
Winter, 1995