it

turns the dark
dangled beyond closure
swallowed by pieces
of sky jagged
holes of empty
wounds—you fill them
with words instead
of patterns that fit
together to release
all those identities
that have gone
missing—you ride
the stories you tell
like engines gone
mad in an endless
maze echoing with false
and indecipherable
sentences—you have
refused your memories
until they have forgotten
you and rest nowhere—
you are following
a candle that burns
at both ends—and
the door?—it keeps
its own counsel,
imagining an empty

hand