When I get out of bed, I leave snippets of thread
on the sheets and pillow, black thread she gathers
as though it were precious, or long enough to mend
something precious. But my beard is gray
and coarse, and these days my head hair is very thin.
I can barely remember anything like hunger
or where my body has been mended.
And when the scent of wild coffee enters my clothing
as I wander through my garden, I am both saddened
and amazed. Amazed, I should say instead, and saddened.
I should leave what I have been and enter what I am now,
I know that, like a ghost or a flower. Forgive me.
Michael Hettich | Mudlark No. 40 (2010)
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