I sign my name on the contract anew
Every morning that I walk to school.
Pulling a little kid in each fist,
I pay the future for those bodies we borrowed.

I prepare for my replacement
By filling their mouths with the whole jar of marbles:
English words and mincing syntax,
Dates, the names of revolutionary men.

Soon they will become the is and I was.
At best, I will be a late-Roman shield
Thrown in a bog, engraved with illegible prayers,
Or murk-dirtied corpse like a burnt candle,

Pollen-dusted rings moving concentrically
Away from me. Look at those two
Crossing the street, radiant with new day,
More beautiful than I have ever been.

Listen: I’m not sad. As long as I can,
I will work my little flute, which is to say
This body with all of its stops
Making a sort of music.