I find a narrative,
as I age, hard
to patch together.
I cannot mend
all that I have
rendered, all
I have misplaced
in anger, and neglect.
I have no prologue
to explain succinctly
each switchback
I have turned along.
It’s easier to see
a moment without a past;
easier to mind the flower
as a petal first falls.
What scars I have
are well hid; no
stars to weave
a pattern in the sky.
(July 31, 2019)
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