Wednesday, January 6, 2016

The Archaeology of Ghosts

I am I, the old you, the one
Who could not bypass debitage.
And I am as I am, spinning

Songs for departed's departing.
My calm is gone. My ribs are sore.
It's not only the helplessness,

The need to plead with someone else
Who is also, ultimately,
Helpless as me, "Help me. Help me."

It's the last humiliation
At the end of years pretending
I was competent, I could help

You or you or them, anyone
I set my wits to help. Help me.
I have no remaining remains.

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