Blank scrolls of waves unfolding at his feet,
a five-year-old scratches his name with sandstone
on tablets he no sooner fishes out
of the water than the sea wipes them clean,
just as the dizzy smoke-blowing pilot
overhead chalks backward letters on the sky
high-flying wind erases at the speed
breath-clouds evaporate from a mirror:
who doesn’t burn to leave his mark? As good
as fifty, my days spent translating myself
into indelible ink & vice versa,
I can’t tell my razor-point’s strokes from blood
now that my signature resembles nothing
more than a heartbeat on an EKG.
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