Carbon
—dedicated to Sharon

These words, particulate and unbecoming
Like the sand—from the cord of my throat 
I could spell them, and they would still be dry. 
I used to think if I wrote hard enough, 
They might stick around for a little while, 
But they did not. Not even when I took 
The trouble to fill the white troughs with
Black stones. Made of carbon, they said, 
Impossible to etch into the pale, hoary ridges 
Of flat recall, perpetually waiting 
For an erase, for an abandoned wave lapped
Up against the shore—lifting a single sigh 
High before the next was consumed.

Dale Chou
2012-06-18