a hush, a sound of wing, a falling thing




          isn't anything at all anymore,

he's a worn stone

                                                                     a book-crease, a mark in ink, a worm

deep inside a heart and winding—

                                                                                     because everything must curl

itself around a form

until it maps it, mimics it

into submission

via duplication,

light under a feather, in plaster

moving faster until it stills

and takes its own place

at the dinner table

with the other simulacra