Past an Unfortunate
There was a cause. There are always causes.
They roam on past earth but stay in our bile
and can drown us with our assumptions.
Would that be the same as dying in a dream?
We spin from the chrysalis not to do so.
Not on wings of color, more from confusion
that pieces availability into a crude form
shined over with delirious pronouncement.
Symmetric flies on dust pollen as its own.
Retouched for any fact, a separation only more
fully cognizable. A lot of good that will do.
If I want something from the corner store, I go
there not walking backwards. Time machines
were invented for the ambitious. It is presence
that obliges a mellifluous glow at the crucial
intersection in a nature, absorbing the plot
upon the conspectus, absent crocus admitting
occasion’s weather to wash out the disgruntled
thoughts of a mind rung unsettled enough. It is
past time. We know how to maintain the isolate
of our station, stretched for completed encounters
not there. Dusk always resounding deep shades,
then back gratuitously with textures of tomorrow,
like the gathering of grass and weeds and losses
that sift in surrounding ephemera, played loose
after yesterday’s throttle completed the scene.
Standing where next I find myself, with only
as much guard as the thickness of dress cloth,
thinning breezes, I’ll soon complain of the cold
to begin to start it all over, littered in a new lot
with clarity of glass from a broken bottle, heard
muffled late last night when tossed into the sky.