DAY ONE HUNDRED (2015-7-17)
ON FINISHING A CHAPTER
The ground has been paced, covered:
lines worn thin into the grasses
as if a finger ran across them, underlining words,
tracing out the history of a narrative
composed in soil, in dirt.
Clods thrown down against the cover of a book, hollow.
I hear the pacing of the shovel as a rhythm in my ribs.
Endpage to endpage, dust to dust.
The epilogue as eulogy,
as a footnote
to the expansiveness
of the page, of a chapter
headed with the final, large capital of the eye
and the metric of the heart, cadenza.