but finality in all series of things
seriousness, or was it
lackadaisical thought offspring
blooms walls of drooping eye?

air-tight space, its coalition
with inward breaking penumbra
of shadow,

i write a poem so as not a poem
but an antagonism of sorts
to the end that does not smell of sandalwood but

the fixation of the word
as scent plays with memory,
a fragrance of spring in all that is winter
casting

a shadow upon me, you,
if not all.