all the space we’re given, all,
one wooden room, planks
nailed to the walls, & us
, a derivative. Supersession’s
duplicates winking to each
other. This ⌂ too has a trajectory
torn, burnt, or exploded to be re-pieced
or imagined again, bound in a series.
It’s only a matter * time, spaced in space,
we’ll look around, gather our things.
It strikes me that leaving is all we have
left, one fractal second to the next.