Immortality beckons
just out of reach
like so much dust on the moon,
my footfalls marking
unknown passageways
through my own mind.
Comfortable there, safe,
unchallenged, gifted
without tragedy or pain,
yet I fear. I fear
the anonymity.
I fear the slippage that awaits
with no paragraphs of remembrance
printed around the world.
Ten seconds, then forgotten,
not even stumbled upon
by accidental tourists
centuries hence. My books unread.
My name spoken only by accident
in Dutch townships
where hausfraus purchase
serving pieces and towels
for their kitchens and their guests.
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