XII

Not this city but the language encrypted within my body

must be the silent exegete of my glory and ruin.

The timocracy of monuments does not guide me, bodies unearthed

chaos of subtext unearthable the city's north lies buried somewhere.

Absent the star of your name I would be indefinitely

ambling by the lights of shops selling second-hand truth.

Absent the magnetism of your blood I watch my body

as it spins settles becomes a broken compass gathering dust.