The Fortunate

The words lie still as stones,
Still as notches in bricks,
Charcoal stains on bamboo.

Writing systems should still
Be seen as magical,
The borderline beings

No more alive than gems
Of solid minerals,
And all the life lives left,

Hair-trigger fossil spores
Ready to spring to thought
In any skull’s wet soil—

To carry so much life
Without having to live.