Fashioned like a particular life,
they say, beyond living
the process takes a turn;
and so occasionally, a sense
of stillness within motion brings
a folded surface forward.
What emerges differently than skin,
the bones, the body; then, naturally
the subtle act of forming void? Here,
the spirit splits apart, patterned as
the evening sky; so oil, water, smoke
and dust, morphs itself to light.
We leave some trace, a tremor, fixed
and spiked the body stays, stripped of
dream or violence in its mossy grave.