The Void

Magically cleanse me
of all biography;
if I actually
existed, I’d want to be
one of my characters—
free of following, free
of all of the
glances sending
my body their punctures.

Coming into a little square—
pale lightning where
passersby take their
luncheon, chewing unaware—
a crevice in the cobblestone
of a day the lone spot where
evil cannot seize or dare,
I am unknown, they unaware;
the void a pile of bones
staring at me, calling me home.