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When it's all over,
the ravishing lines,
the simple innuendoes,
something implied beyond the self.
As if, like the jewelweed,
you have scattered yourself
God knows where,
and you are positioned to be a silhouette
against the snow.
And where is this poem going,
if not into stasis?
All words on stone, or papyrus,
linen or pulp,
written in some loved alphabet,
thousands of years old.
Scribes, and the counting for taxes,
or the rivers' seasonal flooding.
Ships drifting,
and the same, or
almost the same
sun.
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