the piles of yesterday’s ambition,
counting, reconstructing plans
stacked so long ago.
The piles are high but sorted
into like things, femurs here
and there the scapula, here the teeth,
the bones of a fabulous creature.
The yard is on the flats beside
the still-fast-running river,
half a mile of sticks and stones
left piled there in the fall.
Cold and windy, shrouded with fog,
and still the figure moves
and plans to build and sees the future,
there among the parts.
Can I call that future’s bluff?
There beside the river,
mind stiff with the cold
and frosted memory.
I cannot do any less.