Because time is short and I accept that I am rooted in the days and won’t escape them.
The days I can’t make count or sense of. The season’s out the window, the calendar’s for the year. (And this country—what are they calling it now?)
Everyone I love appears in the newspaper--Births, Weddings, Obituaries--on three successive days. Some go backwards.
Every morning a new old face in the mirror. All day, determined this time to learn, I cram my head full of books and voices. At night I forget everything.
This day, all I have, stumbling out into a morning so bright I can’t even open my eyes.
The feeling most people have at the top of stairs, when you’re sure you came up for something, but can’t remember what. That feeling doesn’t move.
A businessman knows he’s forgotten something, remembers, lunges for a taxi, and rushes to an appointment on the other side of town. So much time has passed. He’s late already, maybe too late.
Pausing at the edge of the day--
Swallow panic swallow never. Never mind panic mind.
Try to remember--
For something.
What for?
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