A good meal can somewhat repair / The eatings of slight love
Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.
Any memory for the most part depending on chance.
My age fallen away like white swaddling Floats in the middle distance, becomes An inhabited cloud.
I never think of poetry or the poetry scene, only separate poems written by individuals.
Walk with the dead For fear of death.
I have started to say "A quarter of a century" Or "thirty years back" About my own life.
Joy Is for the simple or the great to feel, Neither of which we are.
It becomes still more difficult to find Words at once true and kind, Or not untrue and not unkind.
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