I'm told one can revisit the point
where all things changed. If not return,

rewind the string; follow, in one's mind, 
the water back to a fork in the stream. 

But what we touched, what we pressed
with our feet whether in careful or

careless going— What we bent to put 
in our mouths as food or drink; or take,

believing it was right and granted—
What the ear cupped in its eager

shell before the sound rose, beating
its breast in the reeds— In the end,

what remains after the body has fallen? 
What final wafer of taste to lay on its tongue?

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