Functions gather
like cirrhus masses closing
your sky like a skull.

Put another way,
that wall behind you wasn't there
before you stepped.

Your photograph
displaces what you could find
in a faceless clock,

in a train station,
in a song determined by
its predecessor,

in chained syllables
drowning you in concrete rain.
Put another way,

the pattern repeats
itself like every winter,
your falling spiral.