In the Škocjan Caves, Divača, Slovenia   A drop of water. On what’s left of my nose. In time I’ll be a stalagmite.   Voices above me— faint, then loud, then faint— move up and down slippery footpaths.   Some whisper. Some joke. Some laugh. As I did. Some grip the iron railings. As I failed to do.   The tour guide will shut off the lights. I’ll be left again 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…