Ink. Ink
on a brush
held by a hand
above me,
beyond me.
Then I am done.
Around me,
white field,
white sky
blending to one.
Where has
the wind gone?
And why is there
no horizon?
Sentry without
a shadow,
I lean a little
but I do not
To be here.
To be here
is enough.
To say more
would be to say
too much.
Armless, I raise
my arms
to heaven.