Patron

In the white space
of absence waiting, a god

of black ink
at the crossroads

with strings attached
to cardinal points;

the space within
an atom's shadow

in the winking fusion
all souls

know the name.
Thread the eye

of the storm with
the negative

charge of space
extrasolar intraveinous

vanity.  Hangman,
I think we've

met before
but now your clavicle

has fallen at
its crest.  Creeping

at the periphery,
more disheveled

than ever, I've chosen
the axis less traveled

& it's made no
difference whatsoever.