Imagine That
for YC
By klipschutz
Rachel Cusk flies first class
and drives a hybrid.
Waiting at the bus stop
I raise my hand.
If I change the names
is it fiction?
What if I keep the names
and make up lies?
Or is that like saying it’s a poem
if it rhymes?
Thomas Hardy’s pen made hay
from country towns.
The Poet’s Garden
By John Tottenham
Turning the empty pages
of all the un-chronicled phases:
the mythic lift, the staggered decline,
indelibly etherized in real time.
All the plans that were never hatched,
preserved in ink-stained chicken scratch.
The finer points that will never
be unscrambled or unfurled,
circling the drain
of a chronological netherworld.
My legacy a burden, not a gift,
through which no one wants to sift.
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