Into the white of my beard
I am disappearing, becoming blank
as if my life was a cargo at sea
that once seemed to have value
and to be heading for friendly ports
eager to receive it and unload it,
to send it off into the commerce
of countries that I hardly knew
but time has changed the conditions
of the market, the terms of trade
so that my life has become quiet
and completely beside the point
I whisper to myself and I hear
the sound of myself escaping me
Into the white of my beard
I am disappearing, becoming blank
perhaps this is wisdom, but not
wisdom that can announce anything,
not wisdom that can give counsel
or point to coming catastrophe
Should I report myself, I wonder,
as a missing person, one among
so very many or should I simply
go on going on, becoming only white
the color that reflects all light,
and disguises all colors in its mix?