The place we’ve never visited
in the time we’ll never spend
the aim of the tools at hand
the next step beyond reach.
The always deserted room
the one no one enters twice
the threshold silence seals
the word that over us looms.
The name uttered once
drawn out of pools of dark
the name that nothing names
the wear that cut the thread.
The path from where we are
to where we are to go
the span to fill between
the not yet and the not again.
Known things against its landscape:
the blank buds back in place
the clay where all tracks stop
the cracked fields the river eyes.
The hallways held in memory,
the hollows of the dark, the walls,
the grip, the gaps, the first false
move and the next after that.
To have had enough of inaudible dust
in the fabric of light, of rattles of thought
encased in the skull, of shoring up
sleeplessness under a burden of eyes shut.
Unguarded threshold of the closest door,
forged key of all silences, goddess
not questioned but answered.
The point on the map
where tracks run out.
Last blink through the lens.
Last frame of the shot film
finally exposed to the sun.
