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The wealth of this instant – a little nudge behind

its ears – tickle to its toes – a dig in the

ribs – and it rewards me with a

smile

open-mouthed laugh

friendly lisp of protest –

soon it will hide behind my back – rolled away,

vacant

absolved

of living tissue –

memory must

stay behind and put up

epitaphs –

and so, memory pastes the

derelicts

castaways

in a scrap book – that scrap book

will live me when an old

instant will doze in an armchair

before a slow-boned winter fire some

years ago in the future.

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