Is this what the body finally becomes? A sentient bibliography
of record and recall; every story, event, and memory—
a conveyer of minutiae that permeates
the flesh and embodies the archives of a life—
where every gesture must be scribed
on the gray slate of bones; a scrimshaw
some lonely sailor held the point of a knife to, pausing
to blow the white powder residue out to sea and staring up
at the stars in wonder at what to tell and what to leave out.