They’re ashes from urns lobbed over the edge.
They’re eggshells smashed in the middens.
They’re the meanings in the Voynich manuscript.
They’re animals fleeing the forest fire in Bambi.
They’re microstates of quantum gravity.
They’re the rations that form the sole source
Of subsistence for a half-starved family.
They’re the surprises in human behavior.
They’re the Devil’s Big Three of dances,
Card parties, and booze. They’re easy to lose.
They’re the dates on a fictional calendar.
They’re the dates on any kind of calendar
That’s no longer used or understood.
They’re the sisterhood hidden in the sacred grove.
They’re the raided warehouses of evoked
And studied mathematical objects, the null
Sets and spheres of arbitrary dimensions.
You can find the words, but you can’t have them.
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