It is nearly impossible to write
in verse or prose, I close my eyes to close
the door, or is it a window I shut?
My mind reels from the rush of memories
from a misbegotten childhood, youth lost
in the conflagration, flames licked by time
friends scattered by the forty winds I spy
out of the corner of my eye, I see
in the periphery, ephemeral
images from my imagination,
fleeting, darting off in impermanence
am I simply dreaming up the real world?
I need to eat, there are too many books
here in the library to read at once
but who would stop me from trying to see
what I could accomplish in just one hour,
Maggie will soon tell me to leave, to go
outside, wander the streets of Chicago
in search of a meal to nourish the soul,
or is it my stomach? how many books
can I devour with just thirty minutes
left before the reading room disappears
from my vision, for I have not yet found
the key to photographic memory.
--
2014.8.15
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