With luck, someday they may find them--
gently brush back those decades
like lover's tears.
They will wash those glazed letters--
straighten cracked syllables – discern
those once fresh thoughts
fired fiercely in the furnaces of poetry.
Some may sense those losses--
savor sadness of so much
that now seems nothing.
In dreams we are always returning--
arching out, moving
like silent salmon muscling water
as we squirm for existence,
barely holding to lives
with empty moist fingers.