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Tralfamadore

April 14, 2016

I’m trying to forget how old I am.
My body has forgotten the womb-sleep
and my mind is forgetting the child-peace,
my hands have forgotten the work-skin
and my eyes are forgetting the learn-light;
my nights were once for getting rest;
what happened?
Stretching over abyssal waters dark as dreams
I sometimes forget that age is not everything,
that change is a blink and a big bang,
and that time is nothing, really, especially after it’s devoured and delivered and locked in place to look back on.
I’m trying to forget that this year is still passing underneath my vision;
before, I was older; I miss being older,
before I am older; before, I was older;
anyway, now I have more to look forward to,
if only I could forget how old I am.
I miss it being next year,
remember next year? So strange, to be so impatient!
It came so quickly, in the end,
aren’t you glad you lived that age with me?
Last year, in March, I turned a year older.
This year is a movement year,  a march year,
a jumping ship year; so,
in March this year I turned over a new leaf and didn’t turn anything,
but the weather in Steveson turned golden.

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