i can feel its presence
and we need no dark to
grasp its attendance.

a rudiment:
darting through,
my death, imagined.
rivers continuing,
pressing stones now atilt.

memory's rigodon -
  heart and mind,
  puppeteering quadrille.
this is where all of ourselves
  go, purloined, deep
   in rumination.

  the passing of all things,
  taking with them,
  our laughter. and it continues
  in our body, endlessly taking
  space and displacing our
  inward-breaking haunts.

  it is no fate nor
   solitary consignment:
  it is natural,
  it is default: pain is.
  and wherever it goes,
  lovelessly, we are
     dragged
       along.