into the one. Not just their traces;
their absences are a large part
of what makes him up.
His house of many empty rooms
is what he is. Somewhere between
solitude and all the departures,
a loneliness that never quite
happened. A hummingbird floats
out of an opened hand.
The parkbench rooted in
formerly molten metal
is where he used to stand
before he became the one,
before all the others disintegrated.
Worlds came apart in their last imaginings,
as their armor of flesh fled
his forgetting that remembers them
decorating abandoned spaces.
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