The Twitching

One could pass
from this light
into another,

out of smoke and
into grace;

has never seen clearer
than this, the soul.

It has no end
or gap or shudder
like water spills,

its soft, white spine.

Already, memory endures
the distance, a splinter
of nothingness glitters.

Only sadness dying
twisted, twitching

is left behind.

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