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(Will I write poetry
when I’m old
or am I already old?)

The old narrative
isn’t holding, it’s sliding.
Using a hoe
to crosshatch the ice.
Tacking foothold as I descend the slope.
Falling anyway. Bruised.
My thumb, ruddy tumescence.

Inner fatigue, anhedonia
Paresthesias. Surface irritability,
Meanspirited outbursts, easy tears.

Ah, but now I can’t
drive backwards.
I’m so afraid that
in this story, my deep
becomes a shallow nothing.