what make we

what mar we

in the formless air of the

nothing square?

shuttered, dustless

and sere

like a  hobbled

moonbeam or broken

cog.

i speak

i don’t but I speak

and light dribbles down my cheeks

and is lost in the cracks around my navel.

hard to remember

wax breaking, channel and signet gone

the ink

is poison.

Dust eats me

and I am alone.