No hand his bones shall gather or inhume.
Unity is not a natural state.
Earth and time and gravity
prefer dissolution, decay,
the soft collapse of clinging
things. Dry vines relax
their grasp on walls. Skin turns
to paper, cloth to threads.
All machines unbuild themselves
one day. Cogs rain from broken
clocks, wires unstring and keys
crack. And you, with all your perfect
parts interlocked, your steady
arms and strong legs, your hands
that grasp knives, pens, needles,
flowers, will tumble through
the dirt like other pebbles,
pieces of something that once
stood up and shouted out its name
but that has no name now, no place;
that is everywhere, everyone.