Friday, November 3, 2017


All Death’s birthdays passed me by
And now it’s just November.
Lie down carefully

If you don’t want to get up
Again and again.
The sun on your face feels fine
But what can you do with it?

Time is not a quantity,
No more or less left of it,
But the change creating it

Nibbles off your fingertips.
There’s no good way out of it.
Keats did not cease at midnight
Without pain. But he got there.

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