Friday, September 13, 2019
The stories I once told about myself
now no longer mean much.
It's not as if I've
created a new me, but chapter after
chapter has closed: footnotes sometimes
arise, some enhancement or smile
proclaim the strength of remembering.
Though I, by and through, implications
of my acts consequential have, do live
and still have stories to tell but
ones closer to my end than my beginning.
Because that is nearer, of course;
and anyone who has ever written
a story knows how hard it is to get
the end just right.
I am a beggar in this world; everything I have has been given to me. My bowl is always daily empty: I receive ...
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Photograph by Greg Clary 2020
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