1st prose/poem block

In the airless corridor (a closet or mirror), I occasionally ask for you. The clock is a black-piped constancy there whose numbers float as soap shavings on a lagoon, sudden, unmeasured, reaching up to your ankles. Sometimes to a sensation, a point. You lower your head & smell its mixture of impartial fragrances, intervening spices, a languid (languishing?) cinnamon. The 12, furthest apogee-- four pasts, a penumbra. My footprints are documents that vanish. And I don't remember walking my glances over you. But I am fairly certain it happened. Response did not transfigure the pulsation of either tongue, as beginnings are ambiguous, a pastiche, hazy, dream-rich.