The Black Square

There are pieces of us still in that night sky. I’ve lost all my fingerprints; the swirls and loops are making galaxies. I now slip past everything I touch. There is no grip between me and anything. I want the heat made by friction and the clamminess made by pressure.

*****

Press my finger into ink and see a perfect black square. I mourn my pink ovals. I am a suprematist in all my dead weight. Where is my figure and where is my allegory? My hands hang in the corner of the room against four walls of Ripolin. 

My skin’s cracks and grooves still argue with the stars. My flesh has no grain. You made me anonymous. Morbid and opaque, I redact now. I block and I blur. Maybe I have been designed for eyes to glide past: “Nothing to see here.” 

I am not found on any system but you are flagged up all the time. Every time the clock chimes, a siren sounds the syllables of your name. Your long silhouette glows back to me when the TV is on standby. Here he is in my lymph nodes. Here he is in oxygen. Here he is as immunity. Here he is in my nerves. I flinch again.

Banner: Suprematist works by Kazimir Malevich exhibited at the 0,10 Exhibition, Petrograd, 1915