For those whose sparks are emanations of extinguished light—

י

Something in me that says things I don’t know
blows apart this heart of stone throwing bones
against opens to let out misfortunes
no one wants to hold, broken oracles

ו

deplorable voices force us to hear,
prayers of choice ears choose to deafen weaken
defences, broken doors vanish vanquished,
crossed arms unfold to enfold skeletons

נ

told too late that to forego waiting and
instead make haste toward the grave makes waste
of flesh made for loving, breaks what wet clay
fate’s potter played with for days before dazed

ו

eyes ablaze with impatience strayed too far
and took to graves, not beds, those who said they
never would, yet did, pay no mind to this
fascination with arousing the dead,

ב

razing them instead of fertilizing
fields of stone pregnant with pauses between
each head giving its tomb new reasons to
split, ripping up remembered faces filth

ו

severs from existence, all illusions
ruined when glimpsed, occasioned forgotten
with annual visits its end’s one less
offensive recompense, if even one’s

ר

descendants have any shits left to give,
cautionary tale, this, then, belief in
materialism so fervent renders
obsolete these machines for living we

ד

seek to fill, to feel would preclude giving
their due these spirits deserving of more
than that disservice of being serviced
as if making use of our bodies did

ן

anything else but furnish us tactile
excuses for robots to seem robust,
what I dig is not so much getting off,
as getting in touch with what never rusts.

יונו בורדן