These square stone walls are of sand too:
blocks of cut sandstone, stone yet sand
like all sands, always ready to go,
always showing their glittering sails.
Someday, with the work of the wind,
this will all be gone—the hollow school,
its hollow in the changing hills,
the fallen door with its shiny black knob.
Touch the wall with your fingertips,
and a hundred thousand years brush away
just like that, exposing no more
than a faint stain the color of coffee.
Put your palm flat on these stones.
Something is happening under the surface:
even in sunlight, the stone feels cool,
as if water were trickling inside,
flowing through darkness—a silent,
shadowy river, cleaning itself
as it eases along through the sand,
rubbing away at our names and our voices.