Poetry: Deliverance | clivejames.com
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When I think about how
We deal with our mortality
I think about a sense in which it’s like we
Deal with an injury. 

About how, on first
Comprehending the ultimate
Hurt, we harrow it more nights than not:
This at the behest of that

Cave-old, even
Ocean-old imperative
To reckon at its maximally grave
Any injury we have.

How, years having passed,
We find ourselves assessing it
Far less frequently, and more by rote
Than necessity: our purpose not

To sound the wound so much as
To remind ourselves it’s still there.
How one day we’re suddenly aware
Of its no longer being there.