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What if all these books never gave
me anything like what she gave me?
And what if the monuments we build
or the corpses we can still dig up from the soil
don't teach us anything?
And what if creating more of us
doesn't give us anything more?
The path up the hill leads to the windmill
but walking it does't lead us anywhere.
The order we put here
is so we do not lose our way.
Apparent is a magic trick,
in the tentshow the only role I play
is the digger of my own disorder,
without precedent or soul,
the father of my own entropic son.
What if like a bullet from a jealous gun
we become dogmeat in a crime of passion?
In white sheets against the riverbanks
in a gurney that's unfit to carry.
Two create riverrun flows of crimson
and the third is lodged inside the spine.
To be casketed like wine
in unforgiving and eroding soil.
Never ending always ending
floating away potent and dissolving.