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The past is a room
with a peculiar door.
I am inside, then
open the door and
exit only to be
back inside again.
This poem may  
be lovely or
clever, but it is
analogy, made
of appearances,
insubstantial, like
a finely attired,
beautiful corpse.
Nearly drowned, the
fisherman runs from
the raging sea as it
swallows his boat, then
looks back to marvel at  
its stunning power.
The ailing king hobbles
from his throne to his bed
and dies, but his ghost
continues to rule, and he
accomplishes nothing,
just as it was in the flesh.
The drunken shoemaker
falls off his horse late
in the night, and in the
morning awakens to find
all his clothes have been
stolen, except his shoes.
I am in the house and will be
leaving in a few minutes to
take a walk. Not much on my

mind. The sky is clear and
radiantly blue. The world is
in chaos, as usual. I am old

and at some point in the not
too distant future, I will be
dead and gone. It is spring.
The dog is chasing
the cat around the
barnyard, while the
widowed farmer
is planting the corn,
while his daughter is
reading a fashion  
magazine, dreaming
of the runway, while
her little sister
selects a green crayon
to use in her Let’s
All Save The Planet
coloring book, while
the dog continues
to chase the cat
around the barnyard.
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