were pressed between sheets of vellum, vised between
oaken covers; in eighty or a hundred years our stories
will be told. Our open-mouthed antecedents will thrill
to my exploits for sure. I’ll probably be mythologized
in addition to all the anthologizing.
By that time I’ll have abandoned that husk I thought
was me, reluctantly. I’m afraid my stubborn loyalty
leaves me largely without judgment, or sense of scale.
Only when every last conflated wisp had been chased down
and proved to be of zero substantiality could I turn from
those puppets I thought I loved so, or owed so much to,
and reach for something else to cling to.
--R Skogsberg
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