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I’m reading
random letters
I found in boxes stored
around the house
from bygone eras
that don’t even seem
like part of my life anymore–
unfolding decades
in paragraphs of careful
faded ink, that cry out
still to be read & savored
for their experiences
that made this moment:
boarding school, 1971
anecdotes of acid;
Paris, 1976 along the Seine
The married 80′s;
grandiosity and family turmoil
England later on…
Those times in Mexico
at surf hotels–
postcards from Indonesia…
New York in museum mode…
The crates turn up
their tales of sojourns
of a life I can’t have back
but manage to keep
on living, in new letters
I’m writing to you now.
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