Absence

In the fog of a dead world wanders the ship,
Soggy swish of the swamp, it hits
The hard rock shelter of
Phantoms, mist.

Out of the grubby stumbles sometimes
Through scattering light in drizzles quick,
The air that swallows him, shade
Chaining ankles like a snake:
The prisoner of the pulse
Without a thought.

Thoughtless strobes
In images assemble,
Rippling sounds opaque:
The word wants blood.

So an ancient in apparition of silence predicts
Unheard whose many
Redound into one:

No exit?

But we were under the cloaks of
Vision; my son,
We were always here.