After Callimichus
Epigrams, 56
When I began writing I felt like a constellation,
some new fixture in the sky,
a lamp with twenty wicks, or at least
an eternal flame. It was mostly a lie
I told myself, though a few
of my friends bought in. Now
look at me. I am, at best,
a little candle under glass,
a strip of magnesium you might
ignite for a demonstration in chemistry class,
or else a meteorite, fast
becoming invisible, something you’d point out
to a child, a faint
thing everyone knows can’t last.
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