Thursday, October 24, 2024

poem

 The Real Writer

The real writer knows that every true sentence

He gets down on paper is part of a long

Erasure. 


By the time he is an old man there is nearly 

Nothing left.

Who wrote all that? someone asks


And he can only shrug

Blissfully unaware of all those lonesome nights 

Of frustrated yearning and sullen labor.


His forgetfulness is his last fact. 


He has emptied himself of all history and feeling 

Now, and only now, is he able to receive everything

In its purest, most forgivable form.


It passes right through him 

Like wind through an old tire 

Hanging from a low limb



10/24/24

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