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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