The life of the page-a-day here, translated…
For the Calendars
Each Thin Day
is All Brand New
Even if It’s Made with Cheap Ink
Printed on the Coarse Pages
toward the end of the year now here…not my photo…
Every Now and Then People Would Stop Working
Lift Their Heads to Look at Me
For Them
The Days Became, Nothing More than Repeated Colored Numbers
As a Calendar
I’d Needed to, Get Use to Goodbye
Practice, to Rip a Page Off My Self Daily
Time is Not an Accumulation
But of a Loss of Sorts
like this??? Not my picture…
The Countless Tomorrows Stood Waiting Behind Me
to Be, Disposed of
Only Rarely
Would Someone Stop
and Pick up the Days I’d Lost from the Trash
Smooth Over the Pages
and on the Pale Corners
Left Those Beautiful Lines Behind
There’s that sense of finality, of how knowing that everything is going to be lost, but still keeping going on strong, that, is the life of a calendar, a page at a time, the days got lost…
Life, the Obstacle Course 