Round Time.
I read somewhere someone said it takes 10 years
to get used to how old you are.
This is increasingly true to me.
Round Time.
Because I mean, if something--
I found this box of things from 20 years ago
when I was in college and all these letters and journals
and things I hadn't looked at in 20 years.
And who was that person?
I mean, it's very--
you are not-- it's not just that every seven years, all
your cells have changed.
I mean, you really-- there--
probably that was three persons ago.
That's what that should tell me, right?
Three people ago.
Round Time.
Looking back, I look too straight.
I can't locate my old self, young self, you know who,
my one and only, my be all end all, my intended and my ex,
the one I was most smitten with.
No matter in how many shots and tones and letters
she was caught recorded, dated, lovingly held still
or held important, now behind the frozen frame she stays
essentially unremarkable, not to be surrounded,
comprehended even in time, especially in time.
How can we see what we are in?
And if I try to ride the wave without desire for destination,
just remembering remembering's design,
the feedback slaps me silly still with multiples of ism,
replicas of ness, a busy copy center like success
with mirrors posed for turns returns diminishing.
We are what we are looking for, a sign.