Closing the Book
I am done writing.
I have retired the pen.
I have buried my little
coffin of a composition book.
I have gathered broken sonnets
and recycled sestinas
and heaped them into a small pyre
into which I’ll also throw
my book project, my love letters,
and the epic poem I’ve been writing
on the people of the Ibo islands.
Don’t worry about the little
black children collecting shells
in the secret Carolinas.
They’re used to being forgotten.
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