It crashed through one wall after the next,
until it passed completely through,
leaving a canvas much like Jackson Pollock
would have done-
this day, just as good as the next,
this day, identical to the next-
this day, the progeny of those things done yesterday,
seared into the folds of our silent movement-
those long winded conversations
spoken through skeletal ears,
the only ears that would listen-
they echoed back to me,
filtered through the crevasses and cracks
and swirling dust-
what did they ever really mean,
i ask myself to this day-
an empty directory written in disappearing
ink,
a roll call stacked with forgotten names,
crashing through one wall after the next
until they pass completely through-
hitting nothing and bursting everything
along its rigid path,
those walls, long since vacant,
like some old ruin,
crumbling under the cumbersome weight
of themselves-
emptied of their commerce,
and enveloped by the weaving vines
of age and history-
how long before they are found?*