You can pile the stones for me;
Make the cone as wide or thin
As you can—or as you please.
Folks stack up cairns all the time,
So much that it’s to the point
Where some spots have put up signs
That say things like, “No Rock Piles!”
There won’t be signs at this place
That I mean to be the last
Place you will want to find me.
Words can’t quite bring words to life
Or lives back to life, not yet,
But theirs is the art of ghosts.
When you’re sure you’ve reached the phrase
That is the end of the poem,
The one phrase that was my own,
That was not cribbed, patched, or caught
Out of this air filled with wings
When I thought no one would see,
Then you’ve reached the end of me,
Which is not—was not—quite me,
Just what I could make of me.
There you are. No more signs, see?
Look down. Pick your first stone. Please.