he is not writing boldly to say
that this is for
someone,
anyone,

only for no one.

all but one have so many names
that intertwine themselves
to their own reclusive triumphs.

this is no inner life
or an outward deaths

this is
something only purgatory
claims in prayer
or in the hell of each living.

go on death and gladly begin!

not for someone
not for anyone
not for everyone

but for no one!

what to make of it that
this togetherness is sterile?

ah, what fortuity!
clearly no sizing down one's self
nor seeing one's self through
eyes of others,

just merely being
and coming to be,
without a trace
of
going.