On Sunday

On Sunday, Jane and I went to the square
        Over eons, I blink, and at my feet,
To see our statue, just as we left him.
        Screeching jungles crash down in waves of sand.
His eyes so low, his expression so dim,
        Like ice, rocks melt in the palm of my hand.
We knew him as the one who wasn’t there.
        I do not erode. My heart does not beat.

She said that he looked different today.
        They flit around me like musical notes,
I studied him and saw he was still dead.
        Instantly passing out of existence.
It seemed that he was listening, she said,
        An awareness having no persistence,
But we left, without knowing what to say.
        They glimpse me and press silence through their throats.