Moving finger has writ and moves on.
After it is calcined dust inside a vault
It points where empty spaces spread
In dust of a writ word walking dead.
Finger wonders at old finger writing,
A dead word embalmed in pure light
Where light is dust like in the skylight,
From a tiled roof with holes in its sky.
Finger is embalmed in pointing light,
A dead word wondering in its mouth,
A dust pouring diagonally from roof,
A different dust but of the same light.