One’s past acquiesces certain truths
and saccharine hues—real or surreal,
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