Black as in a Woodland Pond

And maybe this is irrelevant,
And maybe this is the end
Of ends, of all the bodies

Discussing our embodiments,
Our collections of things done
To us and by us to us, of all

Of us carefully shepherding
Our ancestors’ words into drifts
We shape with our paws, as if

The hills they make could instantiate
Our bodily experience, these words
Shaped by lives spent in long gone

Bodies of other, we think similar,
Experience, these words that have
To admit, of course we have never

Experienced anything as the bodies
Ever ourselves, we’re only saying,
We don’t end in your experience.