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