Nine Yards
I have tied it together,
captured all of it
the good and almost good;
the bad I have
put in a forgetful box.
My collection,
my opus,
my sickness
all of it bundled -
nine yards of nothing much.
I suppose
I defer,
I hope inside
a ticking
moussing heart
somehow
far beyond reason
a book of wayward poems
might emerge
in the lap of a ghostly entity
that once had my name.
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