I drag not a shadow.
I will leave no mark nor will
I, in the tidepools of my footprints,
shallow as they are, make
habitat of remembrance.
I have no shame for such regrets
as these, meek as child’s hand
in a concrete slab — Eternal
but for a breaking up.
And would it be for the greater
share of bliss that I, remarked
upon the world as an afterthought,
take umbrage toward these errands
of mine, both mute and costly.
And should I, with the impertinence
of rainbows, carry on the charade
of mixing filthy water with clean
that every day leaches into the sea.
It is easy, gazing out at these august
years, plump with the knowledge
of rage and wholly without,
to see death working on a hillside
among the trees, raking the leaves.