There’s no one left to play the trumpet
That stands bell-down on the dusty stage.
There’s no one left to raise the scope
To sight a malicious bull’s-eye.
There’s no point in tapping out a message;
There’s no ear left to shiver in the breeze.
They’ve all gone to the meeting place
Beyond air, soil and water beads.

There’s no more language being traded
Leaving a hole where music was heard.
There’s not a single ripple in the dying wheat
That doesn’t move with the craning earth.
There’s little chance of recognition;
There’s no single eye to wink.
They’ve all gone to the intersection
To lose their names and molecules.

The days and nights endure peace without purpose;
Rocks do not become buildings; trees not books.
No noxious gas makes the sunset suffer;
There’s not a shade of breath, not a memory.
There’s no foot to kick the ball
That does not bounce on the brick street.
They’ve all gone beyond the outpost
Leaving no note, no bill; no directions.

11/7/07