Sunday, August 17, 2014


The little books with pictures, that we used to page like cards
to see the figures moving – I can still remember those.
And though I know the action that we see upon our screens
has basis in the self-same thing, a flip-book clearly shows,
to me at least, how moments past, arisen, sensed and gone,
can merge to make that memory, that thread on which I slide,
a little bead of consciousness, confined to present time,
and yet, by virtue of that thread, that’s long but never wide,
able to recall the past, to wander back to then,
and even, in my fantasy, imagine future things
as humans do – and dogs and cats – and those that are their prey,
avoiding hurt and seeking gain – or simply feeling wings...
And each of us is on a thread – or is, perhaps, the fiber –
and all of these are woven fine, a fabric stretched through time,
with all the planet’s history, since life or since before,
with episode on episode, like waves – or lines that rhyme –
as patterns in that texture that is threaded by the flow...
2014 August 17th, Sun
(second stanza added August 18th)
Brooklyn, New York

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