of yesterday and because
wind back and forth like a snake,
its dry, just-shed skin still crackling with electricity,
refusing to give ground to tomorrow
and yet here
this is post-modern jargon
playing at being intelligible,
straight-faced and sober,
awake and grasping at four a.m.
while he rolls over onto his back,
starts to snore.
I nudge him with the back of my hand,
brushing cells against skin,
pressure-points become imperfections become craters
as with each hour, each minute, each microsecond we grow older
struggle each morning to put names to feelings,
numbers to ideas,
words to paper.
Awaken with hope or with regret,
My consciousness cannot be written
but I crave to be understood.
Like the path through the woods
that doesn’t quite reach the water,
iteration of dust-mote, dried bark, mire, leaf-spring;
footfall becomes hollow becomes again perfection;
vistas within vistas,
the last turn never unfolds.