One’s past acquiesces certain truths

and saccharine hues—real or surreal,

present archaic—collecting

artful strokes of grace:

the remembered becomes the dreamt.


A moment gathers further music

every time that it is thought.

First takes are rough, but by the film cut

the lens holds steady, the lighting is just right.


Recollection is a poet; it sees not the hurried fuzz

of minute meaningless things, but rather clings

to the texture of breaths taken, the burnt rubber

a violet sky, her welling eyes.

Finally it extrapolates conjunctions

papering flesh over the memory’s fine bones


The years have, each,

their colours and their questions

to devise; the answers

will come later. Fruit rots, and fruit ripens

and often you realise the moral

long after you have turned the last page

of the book


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