To mark the surface

	(in gelid depths trout linger),

to inscribe in point

	(mordant bites into metal),

		is giving voice to silence.
Etymologies

	are wiser than our sayings,

or, distillations

	of our perilous knowings.

		We write, but we are written.
Long or short, our days

	are numbered, start to finish.

We can count on it,

	but it will seldom be real

		for us, more so for others,
for others we love

	as ourselves, in whom we live.

I sit and listen

	to the last breath die away.

		How quickly her hand turns cold.