1983-04-11

We erode against our experiences.

In the end we have nothing but our name

and our memories

All the things we were going to do

All those things we believed in

All that we thought we had become

Is washed from us by our own historical dialectic.

We give birth to ourselves, but do not survive.

I try in the mornings to focus my intent

but in the evenings seldom have more

than just the memories of where I’ve been

These paper scraps, the only trail I leave.

Gallagher

11 April 83, Irvine


— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

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