Thursday, September 1, 2011


Now circular toward my end. You'd think

linear, since a circle goes nowhere, but does a line?

Reduced to simplicity, retarded, not knowing,Font size

not associating, reading excerpts about

a time I could have sworn I'd lived through, but I'm not

mentioned once, not as if I were passed over

but never were. Ready at last, perhaps,

but time has contracted, burdened me, so I think

in events not years, work the small units

intensely, every color an emotion, a thought,

like restoring an old watch, each jewel,

each spring, doing what I've done for so

long, sustaining the perfection of an igloo when commerce

has plasticized ice and paneled its walls with ads.

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