Entropy
When all my poetry is mixed with death
And washed away in that encroaching tide,
The memory of the man who breathed my breath
Will be forgotten even more. The glide
To blankness is implacable . . . and so
No person will recall the lines or me.
Why should these fragments be recalled? Time’s slow
Stone grist mill is as crushing as the sea
Though drier in destruction. But then still
The flavors that once made my sonnet lines
And even me will yet be newly shrill
In other men and other poets as the signs
Of evermore’s dimensionless blue dream
Expressed in something like unwritten steam.