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Audio: Read by the author.


The lives of others have a point and aim.
Each stage prepares them for the one to come.
They know the rules, and how to play the game.
Their calculations yield a tidy sum

My opportunities were premature,
Or late. My deepest love went undeclared.
I hesitated when I could be sure.
I should have been more cautious when I dared.

And so our talents, dormant, pregnant, wait;
Our wisdom deepens and accumulates;
Until the day when finally we stare
Death in the face. Was all this heaven’s share,

And not our own? For this alone makes sense:
The heretofore is nothing to the hence.


Andrew Sorokowski was born in Hartford, Connecticut, and grew up in San Francisco. He has worked as a writer, researcher, teacher, and editor. His translations of the Ukrainian poet Natalka Bilotserkivets have appeared in Subprimal Poetry Art and Peacock.

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