It Matters

it doesn’t mean, when
time is over it’s suddenly not matter, which
is concrete, a wall, a thick splotch of hand-slapping metal—

it’s not suddenly without material, mass, or substance
as it moves and untwists through spatial corridors which
expand and contract and dimensionalize accordingly, but

rather, how it adds up,
what it equates to, what it signifies
for, perception, or
whom it may concern, where

to the eyesight of the person who looks,
tainted by undead ideas, as if
you think it’s you looking through your eyes, while
none of it

will find its way to definition
found in dictionary-silence, where
it becomes accessible to look up, at
the theism of

a dead body whomever it was that
the living person was, and read
the peace it provides to the brain
when in dire need of quenching stress

before it takes over and ravages Napa Valley
into cinder and a scorched mark replacing memory
of what was here before this scar now present claims hold on the

of someone else and what they were
and what they saw
and how they saw what they saw, and how they
didn’t see what they didn’t see
and somehow

all was
the best anyone could do which matters, and yet
means nothing


3 thoughts on “It Matters

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