The Spacial Place Poem by James McLain

It is inside,
sublimity mind of white light
that you find for, is it not?
There is no gait in sample sport,
you abjure when it,
plays you for all that you are, in you.
It is quill ed in the thrill, of the ink that you dripp,
dropp by dripp,
from the edge of your lip,
pinkish hued in the light that is you.
I will not,
cannot smell or taste, all her tissues,
that weep me within blush touch of you.
This leaves me more than foolish, whereas
It blinks in the light looking up into you.
while it gets drunk on the rind.