Tung-Hui Hu

  Not a solid thing, like steel or a rock.



Full of voids, the way a vault is capacity



for what is to come, and what was.



The passing of a person who has built it.



 



In this way it resembles bone—serpent



eating its tail, one half, osteoclast,



dissolving the other, cells foaming



from this effort. Bone-cleaver cleaved



 



to bone. Though what survives is just the distal



white form, a hollow—bone’s death



masks—what awe that we make out



of this brokenness a constellation: bone.