on editing

Fearful fusion of past and present,
I never live in just one moment.
A piece of paper smeared with lead,
A poem unfinished until it's dead.

The past changes with my perception.
No, I could never be a collection
Of snapshots captured and frozen,
For you one day to look back on.

I guess I'm just a fickle writer
Hopelessly addicted to the eraser,
The pickiest of photographers
Endlessly editing his pictures.

I shy away from the pen
And publish over and over again.
Pacing, backspacing, until death comes,
Erasing myself, polluting the poems.