In Wallace's Repose

-for David Foster

Fifty seven of it stopped learning about the fall
They tried turning around to seek a start but went
All feverish for a certain kind of infinite curl

You have tried the pen. It is ink-filled yet raw
Full flesh unscaled telling churns stories out
For you. Nothing less alone would have made it

As abominable as this handing down of books
Filled with nothing as intense on making us float

As driving out all embarrassed claims to you
The all-out remains this writing's just wrung