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My Lost Youth

By Brian Evans-Jones From Issue No. 5

When I was free

in misery. Its moments

so singular it seemed


another could follow.

Or if it did

that I could bear it.

                                          To live

on needles, or feeling

a leaden cope

on my shoulders.

Not move,

not ever again

wish to move.

But in the end

to make myself—

think how small my drowning

in the sea

there, how light

my body would lie.

Or to walk

through marsh grass,

a yew forest, a white stream. Unburdened

because, having failed

already, I carried

no future

and no fear.

About Brian Evans-Jones More From Issue No. 5