for words,
as if with
my fingers,
wishing I could
hold on
to the beat
of each syllable—
but that pulse
which runs
though the veins
of your name
is weakening
steadily,
and the memory
grows pale.
Never mind
desirable—
retirement
is inevitable:
what's built will
collapse—but
what's built upon's
still there.
Corporeality
fails and founders; it's
only what's invisible
that prevails.
