we watched the fire light of the ship
become smaller and smaller
until it turned into a twinkle
joining the millions of burning lights in the night.
the artist who was once named null
-who had arrived in the rainstorm to the tarot table with his stack of books –
never looked back,
but we could feel the sadness rise in him
as he sank into cryo, as he merged with the machine that will know him as unll.
what is left for us here but the sound of skin drums beating
like the steady gallops of tome birthing hearts
what is left for us here but late night indian streets full of spices and faux jewels
the corners of chinatown shop dim sum places,
noodles eaten under halogen lights,
under red neon signs and psychic booths
in a city whose inhabitants are ready to depart, ground wise,
to the faraway places yet to be known as home.