Fans are running that way.

Towards the vacuum.

The blow is towed

toward truth.

Ink goes down, goes down.

Hits blood it can't mix with

and comes back up.

Finds the hand

fooling itself with the flower.

The head so early

it has arrived before ears.

All of us found her

where sleep a sleep

was chilling the ashes.

The door narrowing

to forsake the room.

when things considered the end

mtc cronin