when you are waiting for it
to happen, the viscous ink bleeding
itself onto reality in the form of handprints
as passive as the glass of the calcined
corralled into a shape of death — your form
stranded on the beach of between
limned in the limbo light cast
like a pale faceless
figure watching over you
standing until your legs ache
and your bones bolden through thin skin
spine an entranched rock
every desperate form you've taken—
each one you're thinking of death
