Numbers, once so constant, blur and slip
through the zero they were born from—
they were only pixels, only
forms in ink—the spaces between
the spinning stars remain. Shadows,
merge round me with dim pinions
while I ring this belfry of shells;
wing me from this hollow wheel

to a place still blank
and fortuneless.
My gods! Let this
slim bullet light my
empty skull with suns.

Listen to Timothy E. Bartel read his poem here: