O loved one, better you’re not mentioned in poems.
Better your name appears in no shifting library.
Let’s leave history well alone to level
cities to monochromic rubble
to its harvesting, to barns of human hair
and unclaimed names.
Plates drift and collide.
The piled volcanoes of histories darken.
Let’s lie together where we end, tired and heavy
as a cow falling to her shins in the heat.
Tom Warner, Faber New Poets 8 (London: Faber and Faber, 2010), 3.