behind me? Footprints in
the snow that’ll melt as the day
grows old? Or am I an ice cube that'll
lose shape, watered down

thin as a crepe? A silhouette
on the wall for all to discern
like the Rorschach test in turn? Am I
just a fallen log that’s ****** on

by passing dogs? Or am I spackle that
oddballs like to tackle? Don’t spread
me out as filler. I’ll carve my initials
with a hammer and chisel on every pillar

and door/ on every mountaintop and
marble floor.