Paper

Reiterated outposts of your
several selves, lost or forgot, or
going on without you, this pressed trail or
stacked askew in your way, all that paper
for a little ink and blood, not to be
saying things unsaid, such humid
oppression, the past that felt already
past at the time, the words wasted on work
that wasted you, how you pay its long bill,
how you try to make a past of the way
for lack of a sequel it wracks you now.

2 thoughts on “Paper

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