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A poem about Škocjan Caves

In the Škocjan Caves
       by Knute Skinner

A drop of water.
On what was my nose.
In time I’ll be a stalagmite.

Voices above me–
faint, loud, faint–
move up and down
slippery footpaths.

Some whisper.  Some joke.  Some laugh.
As I did.
Some grip the iron railings.
As I did not.

The tour guide will shut off the lights.
I’ll be left with the flowing Reka
and the small, blind movements
of salamanders.

The day that voices fail
to come back again,
I’ll forget to remember myself.

By that time–it may be–
I will cease to care.

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