All Strange Away; Or A Poem for Beckett

Imagination’s dead and dying—
Imagine light without a source, just there
bare
upon what shows up:
a page of typed words, her ring, his lips, a child—an idea.

We’re all strange away and dying—
Imagine fancy were our only hope, simply supposition
apposition
of what haunts our thoughts:
more pages of typed words, her shoes, his time, some money—meaning.

Imagination’s strange and dying—
Imagine dying without a source, just there
bare
upon the world:
forests of pages of typed words, her thoughts, his feelings, nothing—not yet.

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