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What We Had



Everything changed
until nothing was acceptable.

We sold what we had
and left.

There was a place for which we all aimed:
none arrived.

We wandered lost
and called it life.

Culture is always
too small.

No one remembers us,
and still, and still they set out.

Once, passing through a canyon of echoes,
I scratched my name on a rock.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.