Moving finger has writ and moves on.
After it is calcined dust inside a vault
It points where empty spaces spread
A dust of written word, walking dead.
Finger wonders at old fingers’ writing,
A dead word embalmed in pure light
Where light is dust like in the skylight,
From a tiled roof with holes in its sky.
Finger is embalmed in pointing light,
Dead word wondering at the present,
A dust pouring diagonally from roof
A different dust but of the same light.