I AM DEAD : YOU ARE
LIVING YOUR TIMES
In talking to a captive audience of
one but one then words stay long
and linger on. I am leaning on a
bookcase in some dead-draft room
made of wood. In my hand is a
bio of Anne Sexton - of which
I am paging and read, I page and
read. Ah yes, aimless as anything
else can be. I am dwelling beneath
a roof with a surfeit of sorrows. The
clock on the lacquered wall, I am
beginning to think, stops running,
should not run at all.
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