By Peter Tetro

We all must pass thru
our own needle’s eye
life’s burgeoning task
extruded till we die
as drawn into the hole
we, the whole into that mold
till what’s left is a ribbon’s worth
stretching from the day of birth
trailing behind
a visible sign
jet’s vapour tail
high up, there, as we glean
an early passage
first straight and clean
our widening streak
to anonymous ether.


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