HOW THE RIVER
RUNS PAST THE BAY
I cannot bring you back :
memory to me. The solid
air of Saturday is over, and
I am back to my Jupiter anew.
Who tied these shackles so
tightly is a mystery now to me;
the gate here runs not with hinges
but with ancient pieces of rope.
Frayed. Burrowed into wood with
both age and use. Like the fire-ants
once in my brain - who were to
take the world by storm but never
did. I guess. That's over now. How
soon the world forgets things.
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