beware of the baroque –

the clutter and the clinging
of the trinkets coloured gold
by the patina of age,
the medals of achievement based on method
– chuck the lot out –
if what I have seems to acquire
a sticky homesickness.

outside there is no gravity.
not yet.
and cohesion is only molecular bonds.

suspension is a question
left unanswered,
and the throat remains ajar.

a gap
lands on my lap.

how long refrain from touching it?
though meddling is muddling its chances,
restraining is letting the skipping rope drop.
just in between, the way without an owner,
the will-less touch, the will-less absence,
completely soaked in DNA, yet nameless.