subtext

he thinks what he thinks

as he walks his walk

through hallways out doors

into rooms as if space

could be contained separate

from himself in thought on

thought of something other

than the next step the next

possibility’s assumption

that’s then parsed thin

like prosciutto melting salty

across his ravaged tongue

there the world wavers anew

into another and another

as each singular event perishes

into itself and the other trailing

ahead like snail’s antennae’s

pulse and stretch toward some

sense until it  too’s devoured

in obliteration’s wet maw