If I lived elsewhere, this version had died
in draft, crossed through and much overwritten –
as once I was foetal, fishlike. There are,
of us, ocean qualities; though we need boats
for life, bringing us to dry mountain tops.
Ghosts jangle their ways into their lost peace,
denying that which they must acknowledge.
What I have been, my pen pushes through me,
writing all that I am since becoming.
My hand and I are guided. Like a beast
led to new pasture. Or a well-fed horse
suddenly burdened by someone not itself,
of doubtable love, spurring; who does no harm
yet leads it into harm. I am too young
in brain to do anything otherwise. I am
here now; and now is all I’ve ever known.
He whose experience taught me of him
is not accessible today. Not here.
My memory updates a teacher’s chalk list.
My imposed tasks and my weird brief identity.
All of my now lost years are new leaf mould
and myth. My poor recall’s a charm on the dead.
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