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Late Poem

I was alone inside a book as I’d wished. It was

fifty years from now. I didn’t live that long.

The book was lost, in an attic, a locked trunk,

a storage space, under rubble. It was the last

copy, the only. Immortality seemed a memory.

My journals were lost or incinerated, those fervent

transcriptions and wonderings and hopeful

evenings, scripts for wild lives unlived, unloved

long since disintegrated. Whatever power

I encoded had escaped and moved on. I was

neither I nor eye nor lie. No one cared or could.

Even what was left of me wasn’t. My bones

were as brittle as a text, religious, with no teacher.

Looking back, there was no future, no future.

from To Keep Love BlurryFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2012
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Published in Craig Morgan Teicher Poems

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