in memoriam s. l.
what little distance is left
runs through the grove of nameless apparitions
spots where i do not exist are merging
and the reflections in the mirror
strain to match their objects of origin
the content provider is exhausted

the chiffchaff chirping in the willow
retains an aura of blurred birdhood
but has shed its true name
should be pilochka pechka whatever
ptichka is all i am left with
and the remaindered words are bogus

once
i was master thoughtsmith i named
things they never even suspected to exist
in that puny universe of theirs
and patched some of the holes in the mirror
where they see things that never are i was
like all of them but burning brighter

the time
has come to unscrew me from my socket
and the small winged darkness they are left with is
like an unreadable message from the stars