Friday, April 12, 2013

April 12

(This poem won't quite fit widthwise on the screen, but imagine every line getting shorter.)

Nothing of now has a future except in memory where it is washed, 
hung and stored, first in the front closet and then, when that show
has closed, further and further back, so that over time
it yellows, wrinkles, takes on the smell of old
cloth, and is eventually taken out by the
wardrobe mistress and piled with a
lot of other old props for

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