It's in pieces: the mind, the Kleenex box with torn openings,
   the cables and cord extensions stretched out like the markings of where a round table would be.

   The no ending, unending, infinite: the sense of loss;
   warm metal carrying the intermittent ticking of the electric surges, Excalibur without its scabbard

   this is an old place with the hummingbird flimsy red plastic feeder swinging from the balcony two-steps from disintegration. No castle, no crown.

   His mind goes: void, spark, frisson—a supernova born consciousness within the roots of jacaranda trees, violet blooms turning mulberry under the clouded sky.

   The Kingdom has come knocking before the past has finished calcifying in the recesses of his heart. Hope rises, sleepy-eyed and says

   this world needs him, with his dry hair still scented from centuries-old shampoo, to survive. Awake, half-hoping the tea-burnt tongue is not too thick to swallow

   Choked-off grief, choked-off fear. Merlin's silhouette devouring each and every doubt. Beyond the door they wait.

© 2023 Tania Chen