The Great Scribe, who remembers nothing, not even your name the instant he writes it down, Would like it up here, I think, The blank page of the sundown sky, the tamarack quill points, and no one to answer for.
Seventy years, and what’s left? Or better still, what’s gone before? A couple of lines, a day or two out in the cold? And all those books, those half-baked books, sweet yeast for the yellow dust?
