Grappled flesh

of the fully other and one.

And each thing here, as if it were the last thing

to be said: the sound of a word

married to death, and the life

that is this force in me

to disappear.

Shutters closed. The dust

of a former self, emptying the space

I do not fill. This light

that grows in the corner of the room,

where the whole of the room

has moved.

Night repeats. A voice that speaks to me

only of smallest things.

Not even things—but their names.

And where no names are—

of stones. The clatter of goats

climbing through the villages

of noon. A scarab

devoured in the sphere

of its own dung. And the violet swarm

of butterflies beyond.

In the impossibility of words,

in the unspoken word

that asphyxiates,

I find myself.