Maybe all that we become
is rhyme of our limited time alive,
an echo loosening almost no snow,
no avalanche, just some puffs of white
like clouds that seem like nothing
until the pilot hits one.
* * *
But we just be passing
figments in this waterhead world or
is there hope that you and I may leave
some trace more permanent, scarlet,
tooth-marked, at least upon each other's heart?
* * *
Perhaps you should be practicing not having
a self to claim, one day it's baggage
we're without, no longer waiting
for it to squirt out onto the conveyor belt
with all the others that look so much alike.
—Dean Young
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