Rhyme’s an Unanswerable Question

We move in an enormous grave,
And we are happy for the space.

What’s left of what we were’s in here,
A swirling cloud that can’t cohere,

The revenants that won’t be still
But hold themselves under the hill,

Never more human-shaped than smoke
Whispering through our compound throat,

Every remaining written sign,
Symbol, character, singing line,

Haunting you and haunting ourselves—
If words are meaningless, what else?