Your
Name, This
Net
for Alan Sondheim
for Alan Sondheim
Traced
against
the
empty, traced
through
the
header, it's
a
waste
of
the
essence, of
the
body
of
canons.
Everywhere
is
artificial,
a waste of depth,
nothing works in depth.
a waste of depth,
nothing works in depth.
Wrap,
don't
desire
(Spinoza).
Quantum tunnels
are
ghosts crossing
over
to
the
Other.
Outside my
window,
nothing
is
named.
I look through and know there
were lovers in those ashes,
I look through and know there
were lovers in those ashes,
traced
in
memories that
hold
the
door open.
I
cry
over
the
threshold,
"It’s
all
empty!"
Dark angels
fly
past
wrapped
in
bodies of
glass.
Look
for
your
name
in
the
depth,
in the darkness, in the rapture
of nothingness.
in the darkness, in the rapture
of nothingness.
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