When we are lost what image tells?
Nothing resembles nothing. Yet nothing
Is not blank. It is figured Hell:
Of noticed clocks on winter afternoons, malignant stars,
Demanding furniture. All ued
And with air between.
The terror. Is it of Space, of Time?
Or the joirickery of both ceptions?
To the lost, transfixed among the self-inflicted ruins,
All that is non-air (if this indeed is not deception)
Is agony immobilized. While Time,
The endless idiot, runs screaming round the world.
(ò﹏ò)
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