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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

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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