Un Portent

[emptyjacket]

The first day of exile
In my corner office
Triggering prescient visions
Of a coroner's office
Within, the refuse of my life
Therein, the rituals of my tribe
Now performed thereupon

Less desecration and more of a desiccation
The technician's hands move over the work
The sounds are wet
Somewhere the hum of a vacuum
Everywhere the buzz of the lights

There is no memory here
The vision is beyond the seer
The task is done in the undoing