This one, I have drawn his
pieces into me like a hoarded thing, bent
spokes around back and shoulders, tapped into
an old matter.
I kept dark, but similar him,
a spellaway
from a chink of miles passed
me and went in.
Bring me someone to communicate with,
tell my areas to.
Or,
just
bring me him, from beyondspaces,
to see what parts can remember
where my eyes have been.
This endtime
maybe, no
tiny ink-howls,
low looks,
no fat evenings. But then why
do we pack
our pockets heavy,
and never for the last time,
do we lean into the night?