Over the years
I have churned
out so many poems
I can't recall how
any of them go. Urgent
as they were
most were about
girls I'm sure now
i'd rather not remember
engendered by metaphors
that didn't compare much
with the world of sense
set in locations I'll likely
never see again.
Yet—I'm not sorry.
I won't be held responsible
for emotions whose postcards
I no longer want
for mutt feelings I've let out
at the curb on the street
or regrettable versions
of persons now-retired.
All that amnesty I must
hold on reserve
for the reason itself
which I can't afford
yet to forget—
and for the one person
who in the interim is
still required.
