So much of what I’ve written before feels like innocence.
I could no more write it again than the earth could cool.

How did I find this pencil? Was I reaching in the kitchen drawer
for a twist tie, or did I fish it out of my old shorts?

It’s hard to change, being old. It’s hard to start over.
Death is no longer a metaphor.

We have wine. The label is stained with wine and
resembles parchment or an old man’s arm.

These hot days and short breaths are the sweetest, never
to be repeated. Leaves fall in July and come to mind.


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