more than this

i could whittle away

a small piece of wood.

maybe your face would appear

after about ten thousand years

i think i could,

if i had 

the time.

the wind whistles your song

but i don't know the words

it was so far

ago

or maybe

you were mumbling.

or maybe

i don't hear well

anymore.

the minutes are compacting

like old discarded cars

all muscle and metal

smashed into a cube.

i wonder if a strand of my hair

was left behind

so fine and light

holding hands with the fibers of your pillowcase.