Beyond the door the moon holds
I find the fault between the final pages
my fingers fold and all the secret words
inscribed therein: belonging to the juncture
that binds the ink to cloth, as well as each
invisible rift my eye discloses passing
from line to line, eliding every mark
if not a story. Light's eversion joined to
retention, only unopposed within
the moment of the moon's eclipsing difference.
Observe the letter O, as void, beside
the letter I, descending through the shadow
wherever I am. Faulted precisely where
the two appear to touch, an almost shattered
composite vessel pouring out its silence
regarding the secret. Who can say a thing?
Beyond the door the moon holds, O I say it.