Do I hear
the ghosts of words?

Symbols, streams of ideoglyphs.,
They do not abrade the air.

They patter across my third eye
patterned in the thalamus.

Remembered texts,
imagined conversations.

Occasionally a swarm
swivels my eye.

There's honey in the hive,
sweet and sticky,
smelling of summer garlands.

My scalp shifts,
shines.

A white light breaks
within the wax.

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