Neil Aitken

Recursion

// test for empty case
if we reach some sort of end,

a lark split wide, its wings shattered song,
the last box within a box, and what it reveals—

that we love what we cannot hold,
what we cannot return, yet try nonetheless.

Here—some portion of ourselves remains.
Loose hair caught between keys, months, years,

the glint of glass, the reflection of an eye
trapped in the monitor's haze, or simply space,

a chair abandoned finally to the void.

// loop until done
else

we will work on, cut adrift from the city,
from empty rooms and empty beds.