time drips into the shallow oblivion
of memories of an imaginary unsavory past
with slow clicks on the wall
my eyes close slowly
and my palms sip the timid warmth of a cup of tea
wondering if they will ever slip back into
the comfortable rhythm of my old language
flowing ominously out of
a half-forgotten history
recorded on cheap yellow notebooks
and loose pieces of crumbled paper
i feel it in my bones:
a winter of remembrance is descending
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