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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