THE POTTER'S FIELD (OR, A PLAY ON WORDS)

One day,
all shall vanish
and fade
and recede into some
potter’s field for memory,

but I will not stand unknowing:
I myself have placed
my hands in the earth
and into the air.
I myself heard
the soft purr of the wind
radiating at night
and fear intermittent.

I myself know the fear:
it is not for what has been
or what will be,
for what has been
is already in the earth,
already buried in a
nameless, unspeakable way.

The fear is for what is still left,
of which you may see nothing,
and good,
good for you, friend —
but I hear it
on nights like these,
when, still,
there is only time to lose
before what ends up for naught
becomes unreachable
and goes as the brightness flashes
from touch to frightened,
impenetrable touch.

 

 

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