Looking Backwards

The day keeps adding its own
preferences and absent of intentions,
as there is time and now stuck to it,
the debris that makes my feet tire
from what was beforehand. With that,
a part of me. I splice it in variance

with some dry saliva noted in my skull
to tell a story that is outlined
with the molding of dirt. Footprints
carry us back, further to what began
from a rock of importance, now
allayed into a smear of resonance
about the path that is always

swift in the light of cosmic joinery,
maybe in some ribbons of strata
around Saturn with hefty bands
that are also rivulet in sands
leaving only trace words revolving
in the palm below the fingers

while the rest is swept back into
gravity encased as field and sea.

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