the futility poem...

even now I can feel the changes,
awake and alone,
my glasses steaming.
my nose
has run far back
into my ears while I slept.

poem after poem has escaped me.

the problem is that I have no one to bring them to.
no reason
to remember exactly what I’ve seen,
why I smiled.
it’s been months since someone asked
if I’d felt the changes.


Early 70's (winter of 72-3?)