Words or wax, no end
to our self-shaping, our forlorn
awareness at the end of which
is only more awareness.
Was ever truth so malleable?
Arid, inadhesive bits of matter.
What might heal you? Love.
What make you whole? Love. My love.
— C. K. Williams, closing strophe to “Lost Wax,” from Repair (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1999)