YOUR NAME IS WRITTEN
on a torn slip
of a pink envelope
pushed into a wallet
left on a bridge

a woman calls
and leaves the message
in the moist folds
of her voice
her words
are fungus spores
the wind drives in
through the crack
to another life
where I deny
who I am
to someone who seeks me
in a strange place

I am
nailed to the circle of the present
with an exact knowledge
of the cone of light
that drills its way into
a rigid pupil
in the room without eyelids
where all death awaits
redemption