Life's always been a rush
of minutes past and minutes
still to go, of buses, on and off,
of paper overflow

and all the crushing of the sense,
the heart that rends, all friends
gone off somewhere more slow
than me - my blur reality.

Now, when most of my time's
passed and I feel a last spurt
of marrow in my bones pour
thick and true, I have you

and when I'm gone my epitaph
will be: she never did slow down,
never did know how to go,
slept too little and felt too much,

an overflow of sense, that,
like a pipe in winter
expanded with the cold
then burst before the thaw.
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