Mary had a little lamb, he chanted,
so that the world might reply in kind,
and on every street that Mary went
a voice, unmindful, as the record turned.
Who knew the busy century to come
would release a flock of phantom choirs.
So many, in fact, we hardly noticed them,
how they hid us, drove us, anywhere
but here. The more we labored to preserve,
the more it blended into the atmosphere.
Our bodies too dissolved into words,
lambs that wandered most everywhere,
until, faded, scratched, we saw our shadows
stretch into the distance, and we followed.about the author