Poetry

Ephemeral Empires

by

Patrick M. Tracy

The wafting clouds of them,
Dispossessed and drawing down
The wind—
Our incised memories, taken
Little by little, the horse-like,
Square, somehow disquieting
Teeth of enduring time eroding
Away at them—

Some things
Cherished, some things mundane,
All put to the wheel in turn and
Ground away.

If we are the sum of what we have
Done and said, what small dents
We have left on the dirty surfaces,
Leaned upon and smeared with
The collected dust and sweat
And drops of ill-spent blood
That follow us with such
Clear and inconstant, trudging
Steps,

If we are all the dreams, those
Ephemeral empires we build and
Burn with no more thought than
Children kicking sand into the
Tide, sun coming down and the
Waves gathering up by splashing
Inches,

If we are all that, then we, perhaps,
Are also a collection of holes and
Pieces chipped away, a collection
Of horse-chewed leavings, wet
Like hay after a hard, short
Summer rain,

For
We must be as much defined
By all the many things lost and
Surrendered as things kept.