Egress

I feel my only underpinnings are to spin away;  
and I pine my linchpins turn to sand, or dust,
while I walk, one day, through the library’s redressing,
narrow wall of books.

I shall be trying piteously
to commit a good rhyme to memory,
when desert winter
will reify before my eyes
a moment,
and there I'll collapse
to a bodiless heap of nonsense on the floor.
Chalked bone piled
with two sphere eyes
and teeth of sand
with only the ability to hang,
like the roots were still there.

When finally I am found,
I shall look up with my two portentous eyes,
and with a smile, my impossible sandy-dangle,
like piano keys hanging by their last wires’
thread on a fishing stringer,
I shall say:
“I had long wondered, you know,
of the actual possibility.”