This Empty Box

Since I owe everything to entropy,
I’ve stopped this running, running down like clocks
With long-lost winding keys, still as old rocks
In ancient gardens, like a homily
Built on expired old tropes completely free
Of meaningful connection, and worn socks
Too thin to cover soles. This empty box
I used to call my brainpan isn’t me.

But we will rise again, an enterprise
Of big bangs and sad crepey onionskin,
Of interrupted joys, a compost bin
Full of dark matter, and a bridge of sighs
As long as winter. Show me your sweet thighs,
And watch me leap up like a demon’s grin.