I See Myself Working

I see myself working
long into the night,
not knowing I am dead.

What sound is this,
coming from his grave?

Steady clatter, solemn moan,
the wind in many pages.

Dry clods beat upon
my oak-hewn casket lid,
weeds lap along the shore,
footsteps stained with
bloody printer�s ink,
the murmur of tiny bells.

I transcribe a stranger�s face
by the legend of his sigh,
carve his breath in waiting stone.

The stranger travels on,
beneath a starry night
and restless billowed sails.

I stay behind, alone.

October 25, 2005

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