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Friday, 20 December 2019

Confession to the Tormentor

The tips of my thumbs turn cold 
outside the glove
these truncated days of December.
I look around and can’t tell 
what matters, or what 
in one year I’ll remember.
People in the park
dragging shadows like histories,
feeding on things 
grown a hundred miles from center.
New York full of them.
Like arms stretching out 
from a splendor 
but not ending anywhere.
Just stretching and stretching, 
a vast loneliness monster.
Torture me for the meaning 
of my life, tormentor,
even for twenty-nine years;
I can still give no answer.
Have I forgotten? When?

Then last night, my brother said 
something I once believed, 
and now I believe again.


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