Names carved on your wrist
Read like the veins of your hand
Grappling with that which has vanished
That is to say
What is written in sand
Will wash away until
You cannot see
Man's spectacles
sanded down
Ground up -- leaving only grains
And what's more
It will return to the shore where old men perish
Slipping through finger cracks
To become
Something moving
Something passing
To accept
What is lost
At last coming home,
fast asleep,
finally
At rest.