The old Chines man named Po
sat
on the mountain and disappeared,
his
meditations swept away by the wind.
The
mountain, too, dissolved over time.
The
river cannot remain a river
as
long as it finds a home in the sea,
and
oceans cannot remain water
as
long as the clouds read the waves like Braille.
You
and I will not inhabit skin and bones
when
clocks are frozen at the end of time.
The
earth prays for dust and dirt
that
it may remain a celestial compost heap.
The
lighthouse drops below the horizon
as
the freighter lumbers out to sea.
The
Book of Changes is made of yarrow sticks
that
fall like scarecrows too tired to scare the sky.
Do
you understand these lines
unraveling
like a tapestry with threads
pulled
by a peasant tired of its design?
Even
this poem must die.
~William Hammett
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