what I'll be
is a list:
was born
thusly,
worked for
such and such,
and died
taking just about
the same
amount of love
as he gave up...
But the question
of who I'll be
when the yield
of that harvest of words
no longer matters
is infinitely
more complex—
not to mention
an entire
ocean of ink messier,
even though
it's so neatly contained
by three quite
innocuous letters.
