Gray sky lies low on my new flat land.
Dark birds jostle others in the scratch
arbor out the window I view the scarp from.
It rises to surround the horizon of the world.
Some toil, a little pain, pangs of anguish
as new weather washes my tongue.
My friend’s memory is better than mine.
He remembers the time now long gone.
He remembers the perforation, paper,
chads that littered the floor, the lasered
pages I printed past years of the tales I wrote.
He remembers stories not true we told
each other, back when we were younger,
when we intended to be much more
than we ended up being: clear knights
who went into battle with avarice,
lust, engaged with blood, sorrow,
lived to renounce yesterday, tomorrow.