It is something I can never
do again:
Write fresh from the moment
that she told me
How she had waken early to
see the moon
Shine upon my face while I
was asleep.
It would be like those years
of pilgrimage
To my old school when I used
to stand
On familiar corners near
familiar
Buildings waiting for the
memories of friends
To console me, but the time
I stood there last,
They never came and have not
returned
Since then. I will not try
again to paste
Together pieces of memories
burned
Over time nor try to
retrieve poems that mattered
When ages have passed since
the words scattered.
February, 1989
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