And sometimes through the air descends a dust
blown from the scentless desert of dead time
that whispers: Do not put your trust
in the flesh, or colour, or sense, or shape,
this that I am you cannot gather in rhyme,
for once I was all
that you can name a child, a woman, a flower,
and here escape
from all that was to all,
lost beyond loss.
So in the air I toss
remembrance and rememberer all confused
in a light fume, the last power used,
the last from found,
and child and woman and flower
invisibly fall through the air on the living ground.