Procession

She draws a grid upon the floor.
Each square aligns with those before.
A figure stands inside the frame.
He does not speak. She takes no name.

A string is looped around his throat.
She checks the line. She checks the note.
His heels are bare. His hands are red.
She signals once. The lines are read.

A circle tilts beneath his chest.
The ink absorbs what does not rest.
A stone is placed behind each knee.
The body tilts mechanically.

She lifts a shard of burned-out wax.
A pulse responds in silent cracks.
The script completes. The sound is still.
It enters through the numbered sill.

She wipes her palms against the grid.
He leaves, unchanged in what he did.
But what he held, the inward heat,
is absent now, and not repeat.

She folds the wax. The lines retract.
No symbol breaks. No shape reacts.
The space is cleared. The frame is bare.
The next one waits. The floor is there.