we seem to remember things as though
they lived in a jar in our heads,
and we pluck out days and grandmothers,
fathers and the sun on our ancient skin,
hallowed lights of childhood or drunken
Greek beaches, hours resurrected
and infantile murders, whether love
stores them there as the cell's treasured
burden, or whether we reconstruct them
from nothing, as figments of nothing,
they are our "me" that writes our “now” thus -
we might as well say they happened
that we may re-member today
might as well believe that years stay

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About David McLean

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David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there on an island in a large lake called Malaren, very near to Stockholm, with woman, cats, kittens, and a couple of dogs. Up to date details of many zine publications and several available books and chapbooks, including three print full lengths,...read more a few print chapbooks, and a free electronic chapbook, are at his blog at http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com
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