In the wet morning, bacon cooked on
Hot rocks beside a fire followed
By mush done in the grease.
No kettle no coffee.
I drink from the farmer’s ditch, then
Move. There are few small things to pack up.
In this life I have left little behind.
Places where fires were.
I do not believe in memory.
The only thing worth believing in is
Slow and quiet moving through the
Long dark.
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1 comment:
The last line especially sticks with me. Have you submitted any more for publishing, lately?
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