November 26, 2016 at 9:56 pm Leave a comment


one can make no answer
to the past; but then,
nor can the past reply.


All for the night.

This would have been written in September 1975 on Whidbey Island.  I’d just been released from the Navy (by the head of the NSA station in Seattle, the beginning of my true paranoia).  The war was over.



Entry filed under: Pain, poetry, voices. Tags: .

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