It's only common sense that a life story begins 
on a paper napkin and ends in a fleece parka, 
put into winter storage and not thought of again 
as the warm months unroll.  The wise man 
maintains all the outlines are there with a comb, 
some lint and one crumpled handkerchief from Brooks, 
while hair grows, streams rise and subside and float 
the plastic bottles, pull tabs, fish eyes and sassafras 
leaves that decorate each day?s skin.  Radiant, verdant, 
transitory as water, the rain, sweat, semen, mostly 
end up downstream, confused by gods and jobs.  
Meanwhile, I struggle to navigate as the days pour by, 
sinuous as rivers, local as a haircut, loose 
as dust in a jacket pocket, impossible to guide.