They shrug their shoulders, self-published,
And wander off into the rocks. Internally,
Their contents have been fixed. Eternally,
However, they are slowly shifting. Marginalia
Along their interior walls are all the additions
These houses ever sprout. Otherwise, they
Only bleach, crumble, and rot. Thousands
Of them can occupy an acre of barren land
With room to spare, milling about in the glare,
But still it’s hard to understand anything is
Going on other than the blazing, empty air.
You don’t have to know what their contents
Mean to know their contents are meaning,
But you have to be stuffed full of meaning
Yourself to even know this as being. Mobile
As artifice itself, they meander into the dust.
The only way to know they’re moving out
There, the nowhere inside you, is to have been
Long ago infected and consumed by trust.
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