Carrying the columns of incense
laid open the funeral book
the late-September autopsy
of everything he had ever written

scanning for entries
mentioning Catylon or Mariloja
or narcissism’s wings beating
chests without armor
ready to take the brunt of an insult
with no protection

his last words were the same as his first

somewhere in the field notes
a codex broken into fifths
a snare drum rhythm dotted and scored
tempo calculated to design
in critical time to the City Of Operyoa

all of the answers indexed
hundreds of margins in vertical stacks
imprecision but with nothing to decipher
two candles bracket the second to last page

“...once among the men in Catylon, I glanced up from following my own boot-tops as I had all along the pathways from Operyoa. They were unafraid faces, simple, but not without understanding. They made shapes with their palms and fingers and I began to see a number of patterns repeating. This was their language. I raised my left hand and repeated the most common pattern and the visage of every man changed. My echo had created some new excitement in the group and I was encouraged with gestures and vocal huffs toward a small stone building. One of the men stepped and ducked through an oval portal in the wall and I was instructed to follow. Light beamed down from a missing stone somewhere near the top of the structure. None of the other men followed. A woolen blanket was laid over the portal, and in that moment I knew I would be killed.”