the Work
took so much from him

that when he finally rested

he blew away.

where the husk landed
was a husk.
a heap of husks.

the Work stepped lightly
on them when it came that way

and they powdered.
they ended up as dust
on the sole of the Work’s foot.

in the steps of the Work
was the dust
of the husks.

if you look,
you can see the whorls
of the Work’s
bare footprint.
if you ask,
the Work has no
one human name.

the husks
remain somewhere
back on the trail of
the Work. 
if you seek them,
you will be

disappointed
when you see the pile

and unable to explain 
the Work
by sifting the shreds

through your fingers.
you will learn

how little you knew of him
that made him any different
from anyone else
whose husk
is now mingled with the others.

perhaps that news
is on the feet of the Work
but it is now
so far along
there will be no point
in trying to catch up.

She had a last vision
of a Brazilian river.
His last words
were of the endangered
Confederate trillium,  
glimpsed in the Florida Panhandle
on a college hiking trip.

Then he lost the marbles
and there were bullet holes
in the pole, the stripper,
the back wall…

fortunately, 
they kept a shotgun
under the bar.

He’d just wanted to shoot marbles again,
the game he’d learned from his grandfather…
He was no good as a shooter then.
She’d wanted to see the Rio Formoso again,
wanted to see her mother…
She was no stripper then. 

Lost his archaic marbles, then:

bullet holes,
dented poles,
the woman

vanishing.  It’s to him
as if she wasn’t there

but she was.  A marble
to be shot, so she was.

Wow, said the newspaper.
This is not making much sense.
Why would he do this, was there a grudge
or a vengeance?

A brain scientist will be called in
to explain. It’s fractal, she’ll say.
It’s got
infinite dust
to be cleaned up.

It’s revenge for the vanishing
Confederate Trillium, yes.
Revenge for lost marbles.
He forgot that at once.

She forgot the Brazilian river,
the beautiful
Formoso.

It’s fractal.  It cleans up
beautifully.  They
cleaned up beautifully.

Nothing new in the story:
crazy person, tragic
person…
just this,
unspoken:

Mama,
are you here?

Grandfather,
are you here?

No one plays marbles 
anymore, and
no one here knows
how lovely
the Rio Formoso
can be in the right light —

oh for the right light
once again on the leaves,
through
the translucent 
vanishing flowers;

no one here
can explain to anyone else
how beautiful…