Phocion’s ashes

who could stem

violin

increments before

entimement?

 

in the abyss of culture

the abyss of flowers

my hand

flashes through synecdoche

 

a window opens

its gravity warps

my sabre

thrums

 

if this portal’s my

portrait in infinity

it’s a simulation

in an infinite regress

 

and I’m thinking now it’s

in another simulated now

my widow gathers me

in her hot delighted hands

 

 

 

poem studio