After the Fict

It’s already done.
I’m already dead.
So is the student

Practicing pressing wedges
Into clay to neatly tell
The story of Gilgamesh,
Centuries old even then.

It’s already done
But I don’t know the wonder
Of it yet. I doubt

I ever will. The window
I’ve left open to the night
Will be closed by someone else.
I’ll be too rich when I’m gone.