Matter

All that vanishes
must emerge—matter is neither created
nor destroyed,

the world finds balance.

It takes you out. I am still
here, living. Going on. Matters are neither
debated nor employed.

At the cemetery, a girl tapes a drawing
to a tombstone: a blond angel
with impossible white wings, a white robe.

Matter is neither
serrated nor conjoined.

The angel is a man, his halo
like a neon sign.

I have no time for angels.
The yard is littered with their stone faces,
sad, upturned mouths.

The little girl
hopes for something. I feel nauseated.
My skin runs cold.

Creation neither matters
nor is enjoyed.

Jensen’s Living Things Shopping | Cruel World | Matter | Remains | Last Apparition

Return to Volume 1.3

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