Nothing's perfect. The archeologist
who finds my bones cannot articulate
a poet out of ribs
uplifted like a broken apple crate.
How could he know (or she) these molars felt,
and are the sole remains of all my speech?
If reading them gives joy
to future students when I'm out of reach
and all my books lie under miles of landfill
at least some part of me is being read.
Poets can't be choosers,
after all, and I'll be safely dead.
Published with permission, © 2002 by David Mason. First appeared in Light Quarterly 38:10.