Loose Earth Crumbles

Here decomposes
A poet of calendars
And skepticism
About all names and numbers.

Back when he was composing
You might have seen his shadow
Limping under junipers,
Swimming in the lake.

Here heaps of words mark the cairns
And moulted corpses, patterns
That are and were not

Him. Hymns in the silent head
Of mutely reordered terms
Hum now their casque’s discarded.