Those of us who have not yet been caught

Living on stolen light and energy, water

Leveraging the knowledge and skills

Of ancestors and strangers, foreigners

Violating frontiers


Exploiters of mendacity

Ours or others

I have not invented

Or paid for these words

That spill from me

The way time 

Spills out in an arc behind us

As we advance


Bleeding as we go

Passing Day

Never reliably parsed and cataloged

Sealed in the personal attic of our past

Bundled into memory

Our complicated experience

Silently rooted and ramified

Until this real world vacation

In the landscapes and cityscapes of our early years together

Set us back, inside as well

Among those ghostly hopes and circumstances

Places and passions

We study and consider

We try to sort and revise

But everything is connected

To everything else

Everyone has grown and changed

Everyplace is transformed

And we too seem old and new

Having grown and shrunk and altered

Unexpectedly, we are at home wherever we find ourselves

Parents ¾ dead, shelter after shelter left forever behind

We are today our own creators

And enjoy the spectacle of our past

Emblazoned in memory and in the sunlight of the passing day

2 poems by Alan Cohen

Alan Cohen was poetry editor of his high school magazine, had poems in New England Journal of Medicine (1977), The Road Not Taken (2017) and 6 poems accepted this month; edited The Beast in a Cage of Words, poems about nuclear weapons.


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