Friday, December 31, 2010


I wonder if one day I did a deal
With some young devil imp, making a trade
Of memory for invention, dream for real,
Losing some fact for every verse I made.

Now, as my poems mount, that would account
For names and places fading more and more,
While longer lingering by the Muses’ fount
Will soon deplete what memories I store.

What started out as velcro’s now teflon—
When this line here is done, what will be gone?