The day I trashed my poems                
A subtle movement of my hand and hundreds of poems                      
 slipped over the edge                 
 of tangible reality         
    into oblivion.        
No one will ever read them now.    
      But their forms will haunt my mind   
     like the evanescent dreams   
  that hover on the sky-blue seas of memory.   

    Later, when I too plummet into an unknown world,  
        where being relies on something other than flesh,   
  I'll see my lost writings,          
            attired in Royal Robes,           
 cavorting across space,       
 trailing purple trains of fabric,         
  and streams of golden tassels,         
  too busy to stop, even for me.      
      
      After a while, when they are tired,   
       we will dine together around a fire on the beach,    
       eating charred fish, braided bread,             
      and substances too familiar to name.         

   Then my poems will embrace me. 
     We will weep          about the day they escaped --    
       leaping into infinity, with permission,         
        but without sufficient care for the attendant grief ...    

             And wearing garments woven in the ambiguous tones       
             of the sacred sand from a Wine Glass Bay,        
              we will tread our footprints onto the waves,           
                   going under, only when ready.