Monday, February 27, 2006

When I'm not writing stories, I also write some pretty atrocious poems. This is one of them.

The division of things
is a division of self
Yours mine no longer ours
All the parts of the whole
measured in books, furniture, plates
The sum of a life
reduced to piles, boxes
It is nothing to say goodbye
to these things
forgotten as if they never were
And the memory of that self
gone with them.


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