a flick, and another memory lights up, and
is elevated in smoke;
was it necessary, upon a second thought,
was that moment a pearl beyond comparison?
ordinary moments, strung on a fishing-wire,
like so many glass beads, fun to behold,
fun to make patterns, and so
ethnic, no high art would ever confess being near;
all that past mingles with embers
just now, and for ever, all towards
that one truth that remains.
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