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Poetry

Each day I woke as it started to get dark, and the pain came. Month after month of this—who knows when I got well. With dawn, now, waking from the rampage of sleep, I am walking in the Lincoln woods. A single bird is loudly singing. And I walk here as I always have, as though through tall room after room in a more or less infinite house where the owner’s not home yet watching me somehow, observing my behavior, from behind the two-way mirror of appearances, I suppose, and listening, somewhat critically, to what I am thinking. Not too, however. At certain moments I could swear there is even a sense of being liked, as sunlight swiftly changes, leaving, leaving and arriving again. A bird is chirping bitterly, as if these words were meant for me, as if their intent is within me, and will not speak. Nothing is left me of you.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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