personal memory is a kind of chair
folded carried rested on
down to the cliff above the lake
once I spent my hour of vigil there
in a snowstorm it often rained
I was like some whaler’s widow
still awaiting his return
looking up and down the horizon
on a twice daily basis
but I wasn’t waiting for a thing
I was aware my exile was permanent
every day I went down to the lake
to write down everything it told me
I knew I would never escape
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