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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