Frank Miller

 

 

 

SOME SORT OF ECHO

I sometimes wonder if they still remember what I remember,
Or, if they’re all dead by now, if their DNA would register a certain
New Year’s morning in the Honmoko, cold, waking up, six in a bed,
Somebody’s feet in your face, the girl bringing in another bottle of wine,
And everybody getting slowly drunk again.  And why not?
What lies ahead of us?  Or behind?  The world is in Creation, only.
I dive, expecting pearls.

     

Copyright © 2004 Frank Miller.  All Rights Reserved.

 

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