“The world is too much with us,” Wordsworth said.
Or rather wrote. Or rather—I don’t know.
I try to make concessions to the dead,
but if they’ve ears to hear or ways to show
their understanding is a mystery,
and once they’ve gone they’ve gone I might assume.
The world is currently too much for me,
but when I’m locked up in my writing room
I’m often caught by unexpected joys—
a breath or scent, memory of a drive
I took with a past friend, some sudden noise—
they joy being remembrance I’m alive.
For though I dream of Heaven frequently,
I fear assimilation’s all for me.

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