From the first breath to the last exhalation
the screen door filters the particles that sweep
past, the molecules that amalgamate
into a lifetime, scanty but personal.
Odors tumble minus vocabulary
raveling with flavors of moistened texture.

The synesthetic substrate of metaphor
springs from the cross-wiring of the switchboard
predicting environs with abstract brushstrokes
that capture the impressionistic points and
waves that roughhouse obscure across the canvas,
a painting that approaches the limit of
perception, the lunar eclipse of Pink Floyd.

The ghost in the attic listens through the bones,
notes other moans and wails, conjures consensus,
dissects electromagnetic decibels
and the nanotextures of fragrant flavors:
and sketches the forms scratching at the box.