If existence has no meaning,
surely, it must at least
have an undertone—
like that resonance
you still hold
at the tip
of your nose,
even after a bell
is done ringing;
or the mysterious color
of light on the limestone
the instant an afternoon
flows into night.
Perhaps we simply fall
into the mood
of believing
we've endured this far
only by measuring
the distance
not as the difference
of now minus then,
but a collection
of formerly useful
decorations—
as many different
colored ribbons,
misshapen, slightly shredded,
torn from ex-birthday gifts,
saved in a old shoe box
underneath the bed.
