Already, we
are past,
we
are history;
we are
legend—we are chronicle.
All those hours—like petals
falling slow-
ly faster
out
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.
