the construct.

tonight, start with the ending;
walk the entire way backwards.
with each callous novelty,
bury something else, dig
in reverse. cover up
the trace evidence
underneath feet raw
and undone. this is
a journey of loss,
is it not? mileage measured
by the things taken,
from the words disappearing
from pages read, the ink flow
streaming back into pens
and ideas. the numbers
on mobile phones unsolve
themselves, until no one
hears anyone else. houses return
to the soil they rose from,
and there are nothing but
lithe, naked bodies left standing
in the rain, the warm sun,
the new night, the whole
sky so big that it’s easy
to pick up pieces
of this deconstruction
and make something new.