Take apart the will of this place,
The gray lake that swallowed your words
And left you in tears—
Collected your remains in the bell jar
For all to see—
The map that became the marker,
A shovelful of grit for the world,

I’ve counted those days and its brighter here,
The heap of stones that keeps you from fading,
And the initials—
A book of tiny notes
That you left inside.

11/10/2010

Posted on 11/10/2010
Copyright © 2025 Jim Moore