Everything that would enable Identification had been eaten. Light and water had done Their diligent duty, aided by Ants, termites and maggots.

The first to leave were The leaves, with their long Gossipy tongues.

Branches fell out next Jousting with their old enemy Wind - of thought and feeling.

The trunk beached across a path Deep in the forest, crossed ocassionally By human feet and dog piss,

As it lay bleaching, till it finally Burst open one summer evening Exposing its autobiography to the sky.

Years have gnawed at what remained, Patiently and obsessively consuming Bark, fibre, wood chip and root Till this wound - that I carry home As if it were a poem I read in the subway - Alone remained, exposed, waiting to be found.

Between the bars Of hours march the tyrant Hands of clocks, clicking
Their boots on the cold face Of nights - in midst of all this One prisoner sits up with his Dangerous yearning to escape.

What is putting out to sea Today, except this boat of skin And bone floating by In the chipped bathtub?

And what should one do If the tide peels back, beyond The usual distance and one is stranded Off the continental shelf with Shoals of dying memories?