Constellations

The stars of memory
always seem brighter
than those of tonight’s sky

And the ones of tomorrow
promise the overwhelming
brilliance
of gigantic suns

But both of them are
mirages
and personal
falsehoods

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Museum of Natural History

Water-colored birches
Behind 50-year-old dioramas
Of small-scale farms —
Relics recalling other relics

Trip

Life asks you to walk anywhere
Gives you means to think everywhere
But there are no such treks as U-turns;
Plod ahead while glancing back
And find yourself sprawled on pavement.

Memory

A quick word or a moment’s hesitation
On that rare sought visitation
Of past deeds and minor wrongs enacted
Through Time’s mirror so refracted
The gruesome monster and saint, both faces
Dwelling again in recalled joys and distastes
Yoked by the burden of a conscious being
Who sees beyond the mere seeing

Shadow

Fitting past pieces
The edges have worn away
Memory’s shadow

Memento

The old mementos cease to be comforting
The look back at a rosy past
No longer forecast the same blissful future;
Ignorance once destroyed by knowledge
Cannot be pieced together whole again

False Idol

The ghost of who you once were haunts
The bright recesses of my memory
Hung like bare light bulbs in a well-swept attic
Tended to and frequented often
Though I do not take my meals there
Though I do not shower there
Though I do not work there
There is living and there is dreaming
And in that space I am only a creature of the mind
Spinning fables into golden memories
To crown upon your brow in adoration

(In)compatible

Time runs uniquely to two
In circular or straightforward fashion
Like bright ribbons that stretch into the distance
Perhaps never meeting
Perhaps meeting when one is too newly dyed
Perhaps meeting when one has frayed for quieter spaces
Ah, what meaning is there to think:
If we had only met earlier or later?
The now is all that matters
The now is the miracle or the great sadness

Building For Rent

I never once imagined that those places
I loved in childhood would be changed
Or razed or disturbed into forms both alien and familiar
That the corner nook would be filled with dishes instead of books
The white walls washed a sprightly crimson and black
The woman behind the counter who smiled crookedly disappeared
Along with the cook’s milk jello which lingers on my tongue
A memory of both my mother and a lazy summer day;
I see the new façade but still see the old
Superimposed on each other
Present and Postcognition embraced