For Hemingway

That the hands would fail -- or not the hands,
But memory, that memory could forget
Not a substance, but a substance's
Extrapolation, that life could make
The last interpolation:

Feeble clouds the vision and the tail
Of the storm, an idle dip below the feeling
Sea, the rocketing motion
Of emotion, ever outwards
From the heightening depths
Expanding, recreating, all while immolating
The decayed journey of time, the expanse of a day's,
Or a thousand's, and the speck-like

Shores. All of life is just such a speck, or a shored up
Raft, a craft of which it is pleasure to make,
But which philosophy advises (and revises) is
Like any poison difficult to take.