I drink from the mouth of the well ..
inhaling the fragrance of the forgotten
and often, I wonder,
with lips wet with the dust of history,
whether scribes from the future are already writing poems
about us in the present,
gazing as we are into the past.
So much gets lost in the translation of words
scratched upon walls with blood,
scribbled onto paper with ink,
punched into bits and bytes of data on disks.
So little time, too, although the clock only slows
when the visitor gazes backwards, for in the moment,
the hands never stop,
not for anything, not for anything at all,
only the slow arc towards the days after tomorrow.
I take a sip of water from the well
and begin to write.