An Empty Shadowmap

Ticking rapid ticking on over cold, eddying torn paper, 

hands always on, a cycle in space a line a long a track, on 

to a finality of snuff, but eternity in eddying, or laps in water,

breath expelled under a surface, uncertainty of light; an

Imperceptible drifting along a wall and imperceptible cosmic

turning, a breath in, a faint itching along the skin over the 

muscles in a back, my back, a back that maps pressure from 

a supporting wall. A shadow of time, ticking, traces its own empty 

analogy, empty movement, a face of inevitable death and slavery 

to production and social reproduction. Rain is throbbing life steadily 

against a roof drawing on, across eternities of soft air, greening light,

light paling, goldening and warming, skin through darkness and auras.

A washing through the hour, the hour washing through us, edges

never exact or quite clear, ticking rapid ticking over and alongside.