Seth Jason Leslie

I’ve got a little juke-box in my ear . . Pumping elastic galactic charm . .
I radiate forms and vibrate frames . . Riding waves to and from my pulsating grave . .
Ancient of days, fresh in my brain . . Arms and legs come again . . Never ever entirely expecting the same from the weather . .
I dropped a feather on the floor . . Carried in from unfathomable distances combined . . But under my nose, a rose does (slowly and quickly) grow . . My imagination beats it’s drum from any possible location . . Near or far . . Memory or dying star . . Seen and unseen . . My body is the truth . . My breath, the process of all worlds.