A Cargo of Green Hearts
I am thinking of the going of things
of the eventual tiger
of the disappearance
of certain trees
or all trees.
there is an ocean of things that
went and can't ever be got back
not if we prayed hard and
skun our knees doing it
like the moa like the mammoth like
the dripping minutes like unmouthed words
the relentless passing and eventual forgetting
threshold of the Place of Lost Things--
what the old mapmakers were
thinking when they marked the End of the World
on their beige parchment and trembled
like malarial surgeons--
which I would like to visit, and get lost in myself
among the mysterious dead among the old stone walls
that run on to the moon among the dreams
devoured by breakfast among
gods we invented or murdered
by way of my feet tracking beaches
cobbled in missing pennies.
to build a kind life there
among the Gone which is limitless and
unsubmitting to further time
and not lament
the world of the Present and Accounted
with its long list of Things That Shall Exist
each with its little check-box,
each with its little expiration date.
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