William Stafford
I.
Years later, neglected, you are forgotten.
They try to recall you, but they can't be sure:
"Wasn't there someone . . . ?" You lie very still.
Nobody cares anymore. It is better
when winter comes to find a place
deep in the ground. The more it storms
the quieter your house finds the world.
Finally, you never existed. A wind
goes back and forth whimpering. In the mountains
quiet rocks deny everything.
II.
From this cave where they found the skeletons, you
can see the sky: a pool reflects a hole in the
ceiling. The figures died huddled together, some
thousands of years ago. You can lay your
head on the stone where a skull was, and
still hear the crying when the entrance closed:
never to answer, only to die suddenly and get away.
