from this week in February 1971 (I was 26)
Young Poet
There was a time he could not hold a thought
together long enough to make much difference
Day passed upon daily poem of 7 or 8 lines
and each of those only echoes of the others
The nowness of now and thenness of after
occasionally lost in a myth of careless laughter
He had lost the overview of time’s continuum
or had given it up for a longer look at the moment
and still he found far too much to see
trying to decide whom he ought to be
Finally resolved that all was all
he considered these choices:
1) a life of arbitrary resignation
2) scoff at the absurdity
3) gather more evidence
4) hide from the fact
Realizing he might have time to choose all or none
he began doing number four for now
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