My age fallen away like white swaddling Floats in the middle distance, becomes An inhabited cloud.
I have started to say "A quarter of a century" Or "thirty years back" About my own life.
Walk with the dead For fear of death.
Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.
And the case of butterflies so rich it looks As if all summer settled there and died.
A good meal can somewhat repair / The eatings of slight love
Any memory for the most part depending on chance.
Joy Is for the simple or the great to feel, Neither of which we are.
Get stewed:Books are a load of crap.
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