I wish I were
the smell of the new glass,
freshly cut and
shaped into something
resembling trees,
but unfortunately, even after all this time
I still don't really see
the point of being
or doing
a PhD;
but maybe I would like to be
an apple tree;
maybe this, too, will become
memory
if only I linger long enough to understand
why it is so hard to receive
just a little shade, any at all
from things that bloom, grow and die in the fall;
where I come from
the only season we know of
is when, and when is not when
an inspector calls.
I will never have that kind of presence
and yet I stand tall, with enough common sense
to know that even in this, too,
my childhood was absolutely and ferociously
relentless.
Responding to Louise Glück's poem 'Nostos' (1996)
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