We live to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.
Let this book as it ends
remember the hand that wrote it.
the eyes that slowly
learned its alphabet,
the thumb that peeled back its pages.
The days were marked beforehand:
phases of the moon,
pockmarks of thunderous rain
the maturing birthdays of children.
And lies, cruel ciphers on paper,
paper that curls and yellows.
Independence Day, a bountiful season,
a lot of numbers to throw away…
What left is there to recount?
Something about a year dying in anguish,
something about starlight and sleep.