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