Wednesday, April 4, 2018


Already, we
are past,

are history;

we are
legend—we are chronicle.

All those hours—like petals
falling slow-
ly faster

and down-
ward from the center

of the mellow
flower of the day

into a big
cool bowl of
stainless silver;

like the dismantled scrambled
letters of each of our
first and last names

whispered one at a
time from the tip
of some lonesome precipice

down toward the roiled chest
of the greatest single ancient
ocean on the planet—which,

today, scholars all
call—Nothing Special.