Someone, hiding inside the walls, tells me this is not cause and effect.
All day, someone has been sliding along, stealing my fossils
and the paraphernalia I drop along the way: heads-up pennies,
skinny snowflakes, most likely a semicolon or two; I can taste the wind.
There is no cause, to no effect: there is no stopping the turn of the tides,
nor the range of motion in which we move to pull the moon back to earth.
Everyone stops once. I stopped a long time ago, I spun in my orbit,
which is there: there is no they; they only stopped to question my fossils,
the strange bits of god and man everyone leaves in passing.
They know I am no good at nothing. They see me shedding in the fall. They watch me
pull the leaves out of my hair and fling them into space.
I am not the only thing alive. They will push in your fingerprints and no one
will remember your name.