By
Sam Burnside

When my dry dust,
Scattered at evening time,
Blindly, in fisted hand
And arm stiff with rage and despair,
Settles on cool water,
The final binding together will be lost
If calmness is lost.

All that gone, too –
For time loses all
Documentation of public memory
And even monuments to private witness
Must marry with obscurity –
As our voices are swallowed by storms
Whose rising and ending serve purpose
Or no purpose, or little purpose.