The function of it.
The man threaded the ink for me.
I suppressed my various liquids
—to gesture instead—
his language at him.
Though,
what is it
to function?
To gesture at the chair,
and to pretend it is a thing only to sit on.
To hang the dead instruments from the rafters like meat,
to forget the inherited,
all of this
takes exquisite practice.
The antiquity that keeps passing, passing.
The value already enough to make you weep.
The recollected number speaking to our sense of cohesion.
No, no, not loss.
Nothing. Not a thing, this is, not a thing.
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