1445
4.349
16.xii.23
a life consists of
many worlds
ones given, left
the ones we’ve made
artists’ impressions
ache until over
even in the one book
this day
and just a moment
world in which forgive forget
world from which we’re gone
for the record
nothing in life was ever quite round
here’s the imperfection of all things
always another colour to come
call drift
but somewhere else is home
where you’ll remember
worlds previously pictured, wished
worlds you’d wish away
at last the something ran as if
and to believe
a world of all these lives
sincerely
or by trick of whim
we who have heard the music
must scratch this all down here
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