From The Woodpecker Pecks, But the Hole Does Not Appear, a poem by Charles Wright in the Jan 10th New Yorker.
It's hard to imagine how unremembered we all become,
How quickly all that we've done
Is unremembered and unforgiven,
how quickly
Bog lilies and yellow clover flashlight our footfalls,
How quickly and finally the landscape subsumes us,
And everything we are becomes what we are not.
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