Evening, at half-mast

through mulberry-glow and lichen: the banner

of the unpronounceable

future. The skull’s

rabble

crept out from you—doubling

across the threshold—and became

your knell

among the many: you

never heard it

again. Anti-stars

above the city you expel

from language, turning, at odds,

even with you, repeal the arson

eye’s quiet

testimony.