nothing is foreseen
like the past... it outlasts the future
and no one lives long enough
to know for sure.
and then there's amnesia.
a suite of empty rooms
you
came from -
and all

all
the invisible deeds
of your god
with a margin of error
the width of your
conviction.
a mote of bobbing
apples, made of
smoke.
around a castle
with a rook
made of
bones.