Et in Arcadia, Ego

The moon

 written in paper veins

Whistling grass

Your skin

Cool

Now warm

Brine

Tanned, stretched

Twisted onto bone

Bound

Now flapping free

Your being enveloped

And voided

Nothingness

Rooted

In your stalks.

Smoothness crumples

No one sees

redness

Pulsing

Directionless

Searching for the Nebula

Which, once blue

Told us of entropy

Of cold distance

Disparate

Disappearing

Darkness

Matters.