Paul Auster

Scribe

Notched out
on this crust of field—in the day
that comes after us,
where you saw the earth
almost happen again: the echoing
furrows have closed,
and for this one-more-life have ransomed you
against the avid murmur
of scythes. Count me along, then,
with your words. Nothing,
even on this day, will change.
Shoulder
to shoulder with dust, before
the blade and beyond
the tall dry grass
that veers with me, I am the air’s
stammered relic.