“without—the power to die”

–Emily Dickinson

 

An ephemera scattered

like thoughts in dreams;

I am no longer subject.

I am object,

acted upon— chaff

allowed to fall,

disregarded,

indistinguishable from dust.

 

Yet, I must respond,

must go on.

Despite dysfunction,

despite predicate’s lack,

I stand here

to mark an empty space.