.

This little poem
is not a purse
for future generations
to protect (why?
what would that mean?)
yet if it pockets night
where only dead collect,
if words can work like that,
it only means to bag
the numb in me.

But no, this tiny verse
is not for unborn eyes
because its birth goes
round the living dead
and carries those who
only live enough to be
dismissed.

Instead, it is a ship
for those who scribe
across to calmer shores
in search of signs
that team with
mirrored versions
of themselves-adept
at folding darkeness
into untaut tales
as if lost at sea.