Nothing alive can keep us as we go.
The end loves all the doors that close away.
We may embody what we never know.

What does he have to give? No less space
than usual opens above him,
outward to the Van Allen Belts and beyond,

He speaks to me so that my whole
         drift gathers to his verse:
the page like a gravestone, his terse

He has none, of course.
Appearing to carry one
in the specious recesses