Where do they go, eternal lines?
They stop the mind a mere minute
before they fly, unadorned by wings,
and fall like flakes of dead skin,
destined for nothingness, but this
here/now. How to tell it?
I’m here because…but it’s all
so horrible, an accident! I can’t
live it indefinite, do it. Even
to be is to be nothing
but what I am – in effect
what you make of me.