Words on a ring in the mud—
Hope links hope. Oh, and one more,
Not a whole word but a sign—
Hope links hope X. Words form links
And hope, but can we count X?
X is a mark, marks the spot,
Could be a name or a kiss.
So then, yes, we should count X,
Which is both more and/or less,
Which is the sign who goes there,
The place for what we don’t know,
And there’s the rub for our kind.
We don’t so much die as bleed.
We can stay in mud or sand,
On bark or reeds for more turns
Of the world than towns or tongues
Last, not to say than mere lives.
We can’t yet count all the lives
We can last past: call them X.
But we need those lives to breathe
Some sense in us, and sense bleeds.
