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My golden shoebox (November 2000)

When I reach 
under the bed to fumble
for the box
in which I keep
my soul
carefully wrapped
in silk

I often imagine
that it's horribly
blackened, charred
since last I carressed it

Yet every time
without fail
the searing light
that bursts
from the box
as I crack it
open, no more
than an inch
leaves me thinking
that I'll never see again

Thankful and blessed
to have the world washed
from my memory
by part of my self
I cry as I push it
back under the bed

The long night
yet to come
peeling open
my unwilling eyes.


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