must be his voice. Not therapeutic.
There were
times, as always.
As you must have heard. I grew
without perspective, depth. Immanence. No sense.
Words removed, time’s tune.
Though these come back.
Ants amassing under the concrete floor.
The sliding door off-track.
Stepped through.
Eventual shatter.
Evermore.
Terror is a turning away.
This Semele did not.
Reduced to ash at the presence. The wind
picks up. Everything taken.
Fain, I would have. But for so
many things.
The walls the wind blows through.
The house
of collected debris. The day the train
pulled away. Later derailed.
The skeletal umbrella.
Water pouring
over the drains.
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