They were padlocked
to nothing—
securing only by burden—
the links weather-smoothed
by the many hands before mine.

Do these memories matter?

These facsimilies are they
a reality of their own?
Not it but another—
not former
but other

An ever-now nothing
core of a ghost
a swarm notion
of a vaporous
space in which

the temperature of metal
locks the gate
of what, exactly?