FOR MATHIAS

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For nothing, not for its anxious ghosts. Not
          the haunt of a guilty fingerprint smudged
          on a picture window. The body’s salts
bleaching the brim of a baseball cap.

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For nothing, not what appears traced in chalk
          white on the ground in a person’s shape. Not
          a vacancy, formerly a life. Not a minute of sand
          to fill an hourglass. For nothing, not the time
          pretending to mark it, not an invisible force
extending out from the center of the universe,

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generating all possible radiance. For nothing, not
          for the love of it, for love or anything else. Not
          anything else, not an explanation, not an attempt
to make sense out of. For nothing, not from somewhere.