My Moral, Probate Inventory

I’ve been walking backwards.
Following the string
Woven back through
Every poetic thing

I’ve written

Spread loosely stacked,
Loosely fanned
Like playing cards in a trick,
Or in a no-draw hand,

With no discards.

Catching the sudden
Cursory view
Of how I’ve processed
The days I’ve lived through
Into redundant drivel

Is too depressing.

I am not sure
What I am for

Or if what I’ve been
Can be salvaged

If it’s even worth the time.