I would be riding
your stumps― to
byzantine castle
of ardor.

It was not
my thesis― to make
me blithsome.
You were your own enemy.

In a crushed phenomenon
I was sketching you
in coal, without scratching
the face on moon-paper.

The room
crumbles. Space shrinks.
I cannot touch you
in moments, in time.

What I bequeathed
remains unclaimed.