I’d take no vocals with me
to the desert island
and no music of the moment:

just water sounds looped endlessly,
birdcalls,
heartbeats recorded at various times —
in utero,
at moments of stress and serenity,
on the occasion of slowing down and ceasing at death.

And movies?  Why bother?
With all that sky above and
a global ocean before me,
I might learn something at last.

As for books:
well, there’s one cliche
that makes sense: I’d bring
ten thick blank books —
but just one ultra-fine point pen.
The ink might run out
long before the pages did,

or perhaps not. Perhaps
I could devote the time
to conservation: placing one
small, perfectly printed word
in the center of each creamy leaf.

When they come for my bones
they will puzzle over them —
why they are the words they are,
why the last word of all
on the final page of the book
is “saved.”