Kitting Out Writers

Here’s your creased receipt,
Your sliver of soap,
Your strip of bamboo,
Tanned hide, or birch bark.

Your hands and your voice,
Your gestures and songs,
Might shape more meanings
More eloquently,

But they’re too like you—
They may have happened
Forever and can’t
Ever unhappen,

But that happening’s
Soon over and gone.
You don’t need iron
Or carving in stone,

But symbols can hide,
Can shelter in place
On the walls of caves,
In palatial dust.

Symbols can be spies,
So minor, inert,
Literally small,
Small enough to fit

Through generations,
Through history’s mesh,
Through grinding changes,
Through filters of years.