(    )

      > where drifts the self?

frore strath
  where stalkers
drip their sultry rest
  and our shoulders
thaw
  into
the moor of dumb ”Earth”;

  > where do the ARROWS lead?

   to the soft cortège of gut
  slunk in eve’s
inferring weave;
  often whit’s
threnode
  where bre^th ignores its end

       > what stirs now?

  wearing the guise of lack
   [...]
ego, and
a patch of moss in sombre ”snow”
  lurching
beyond limbs,
  beyond need

       > when loosens time?

  the night clasps
 thin as the sigh of origin
  and i
(and we)
  one sunken, shallow leaf;
  do not rise /
do not recall

       > none beside?

  only the dreary,
  detailed fatigue
  of being
  unmade, unmade...
  
       >  ▍