Sublimation

Grant me this obsession: any image
depicting an entity as it disappears—
++++++++++stock-still vanishings
++++that seem far
different than cardiac arrest,
different than the plasma
++++++++++++++rivers+++++++within
that draw parched,++++mud-cracked.
A pure fish needs not water nor blood.
Everything in the universe is already
++++swimming, or clinging
to some dark matter raft.++++Or so I am told.
Or so I observe as I study a sketch
of a horse galloping
++++++++++into shapelessness—its head
and neck becoming coral++++then sand
then emptied++++space. The horse has not been
dispelled. The horse is substantiated
across the page and beyond
++++the framing black, its bits
corralled at last by my inhales. Do I become
the horse? One answer:
what of us is not related through sublimation
—the phase matter enters when it grows
weary of holding
++++++++++form? I am tired. I want to be
worthy of an alternative undoing
to which I might surrender—
another atomic process,
++++++++a dissolution
more ecstatic than decomposition,
to punctuate my clearing
++++++++++++++++++++++sigh.
My kinetic flesh
relinquished for the uncolored, odorless,
tasteless ubiquity of a vapor.