Formaldehyde Poem by Eszty Arod

I am not here
when I walk in the streets.
As I drive past the cornfields,
I am not here. It's
a limbo, a strange place
where to live - like a jar of
formaldehyde. My muscles they're
all quivering but I look still
and quiet like moonlight:
I watch the clouds, they come
and go, reshaping oceans
in the sky. Above far away
far above high on the top of this
disoriented anticipation
I see my hands: they move from
opposite directions as I'm writing
my life towards the centre.
Perhaps, my dear, perhaps
we will meet in the middle.