Phocion’s ashes

who could stem


increments before



in the abyss of culture

the abyss of flowers

my hand

flashes through synecdoche


a window opens

its gravity warps

my sabre



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